Chaicopy Dig In Vol. 5 Issue 1 April 2021 by Chaicopy

Chaicopy Vol. V | Issue I | April 2021 Published by MCH Literary Club Manipal Centre for Humanities, Manipal, Karnataka-576104 Only the copyright for this collection is reserved with Chaicopy. Individual copyright for artwork, prose, poetry, fiction and extracts of novels and other volumes published in this issue of the magazine rests solely with the authors. The magazine does not claim any of those for its own. No part of this publication may be copied without express written permission from the copyright holders in each case. The magazine is freely circulated on the World Wide Web. It may not be sold or hired out in its digital form to anybody by any agency whatsoever. All disputes are subject to jurisdiction of the courts of the Republic of India. © Chaicopy, 2021 Cover Art: Meera Anand Cover Design: Samara Chandavarkar Layout and Page Setting: Samara Chandavarkar and Madhumitha Arivu Chelvan Team Members: Editors-in-Chief: Aditi Paul Francesca Folwer (Interim) Fiction: Madhura Kar, Bhanusri Palle, Deepthi Priyanka, Madhumitha Arivu Chelvan, Serene George, Shreya Jauhari, Shriya Adhikari, Sonia Sali, Sragdharamalini Das, Uma Padmasola Nonfiction: Ajantha Rao, Jayaditya Vittal, Jishnu Goswami, Komal Badve, Manjita Joshi, Sarah Hussain Visual Arts: Aparna Manoj, Lavya Joshi, Nethra Gopalakrishnan Illustration and Graphic Design: Jacqueline Williams, Aparna Manoj, Madhumitha Arivu Chelvan, Nehla Salil, Nethra Gopalakrishnan, Samara Chandavarkar, Udhisha Vijay PR: Shriya Adhikari, Aashna Vishwanathan, Arpita Reddy, Eman Siddiq, Sadhvi Hegde

Editorial “While making a delicious recipe can be simple, great cooking is never the result of one element in isolation.” Yotam Ottolenghi, Flavour This issue began with one thought – we want to do something fun. This time has been difficult for us all and we wanted to have an issue that would put a smile on ours and our readers’ faces. Little did we know it would make our stomachs rumble too. We knew we wanted to pursue an issue that would reflect on how the past year has shaped our lives. Food, we found, irrevocably bound us all, across the virtual space. Food has been inspirational, containing narratives that are integral to how we view ourselves, in relation to the larger world. With this, I present Dig In: The Language of Food. In keeping our theme so broad, we wished to see the varied conceptions of an idea so familiar to all. To our surprise, two perceptions stood out the most, and I believe they are illustrative of how our relationship with food has shaped over the past year. Therefore, with this issue we return to Chai Expressions and Kaapi Sessions. Chai Expressions dedicates itself to exploring food and its conception through genealogies, culminating into an introspective and growing self. Kaapi Sessions maps food in memory, reminiscing across time and etching the present. I would like to thank our contributors, whose pieces enthralled the team and left us all with full hearts. If it is memory and the

forging of relationships that our contributors value the most in relation to our theme, it is only fitting that we find a way to continue this discussion. In launching this issue, we hosted a virtual cook-along event with the aim of preparing a simple meal for our loved ones. To this extent, we thank Prithvi Patil for being our graceful host. Despite having had a largely virtual existence for the better part of a year, no person has worked in isolation. I would like to thank Dr Nikhil Govind, our Head of Institution, for having provided us with such a creative space to explore and grow as we learn. I would also like to thank our faculty guide, Dr Ashokan Nambiar, without whose support and guidance this issue would not have been possible. Sre Ratha’s contributions to this issue of the magazine have not gone unnoticed. I would also like to take this moment to thank Francesca Fowler, who acted as the interim Editor-in-Chief for the last few months, and has been the Head for Public Relations since August 2020. This issue owes much to her dedication to Chaicopy, and I owe her the sincerest of my gratitude for being an exemplary peer, and the kindest friend. To my team: daunted as I still am by the sheer size of Team Chaicopy, I find myself enriched having worked alongside you. I would like to especially note the contributions made by the Core. Madhura, Bhanusri, Ajantha, Shriya, Madhumitha and Samara – thank you for having been team leads I could rely on without hesitance. I hope this experience has been as fulfilling for you as it has been for me. For those at Team Chaicopy graduating this year, it is the last issue. This journey has been brief, but fruitful. I can only hope

that we are able to revisit Chaicopy as alumni for years to come. In remembrance of all the meals shared and yet to be, we leave this issue at your table, dear reader. We hope you find a semblance of a warm meal’s comfort within these pages. On behalf of Team Chaicopy, Aditi Paul Editor-in-Chief April 2021

A Spicy Affair

Meera Anand

Anyone who has grown up in an Indian household is familiar with the heavenly aroma that fills the house the moment the “magic box of spices” is opened. This photograph shows a vast array of Indian spices – star anise, pepper, clove, bay leaf, turmeric, red chilli powder, cardamom and cassia bark. Every spice has imparts a distinct flavor and using just the right amount of each spice will result in the “flavour bomb” that is usually associated with Indian food. Home to the spice capital of the world, Indian spices or Masala can be rightly called the heartbeat of the Indian kitchen.

Chaicopy | Vol V | Issue I

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

Chaicopy | Vol V | Issue I

Chai Expressions

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

The Mortar and Pestle

Meera Anand

Chaicopy | Vol V | Issue I

A shil noda and its tales

Madhura Kar

We call it a shil noda – For a child of nine, it’s two funny Bangla words For the adults of the house, It’s the slab of stone that lentils get ground on For my grandma, my thamma, It’s one among many ways to shower affection, Or perhaps, a vital tool – A little bit of stone but mostly, sweat and soul For her granddaughter, for me, It is nothing short of art, or maybe even magic The seeds of which Flowered under the skin of her hands, years ago And grew into lush gardens – The fruits of which lie in myriad delicacies Some fried in a kadai filled with bubbling oil, crunchy and savory Others heavily spiced, Dried for days under the sweltering Kolkata sun Sweet and salty and tangy And delicious in ways I could never describe In ways my words couldn’t, But love can, and has, for years and years So someday, when I’m ready, I’ll ask her for a tiny seed of my own So that I may be able to love In ways that only the magic in her hands could

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

My Paati’s Checkmates

Nanditha Babuji

The sun was setting as I tried to understand why minimal activity had left me sweating like a pig. The quarantine had done its deed in a way that I now wore large clothes to hide my larger body. I had never had problems with my weight. I was that kid in school who could eat anything and never gain weight. “I have a high metabolism”, I’d say in an airy tone. The case of my metabolism remained cold, but quarantine had sure put me in an uncomfortable position. Now, I was eating “healthy”, “no white sugar, no maida or flour and no sweets’’ was my motto, helping me through the process. The weight gain had been unprecedented to the point where I was ashamed to even go to the running field, where I was proving to the world that I was trying to lose the flab. Ashamed sounds too strong – I was just shy. All the colony aunties had seen the slimmer version of me and often said things like “Evlo height iruku, saree kattuna romba nalla irukum, latchanama!” –– You are very tall, if you wear a saree it will be very nice, you will look traditional and welcoming! While I remembered the compliments, I had almost forgotten when they were said – when I was a pre-teen. So, at this point, I didn’t want to grow up and “become a woman”, as my grandmother says. Womanly or not, I had gained too much weight. This marked the beginning of my ventures into dieting and exercising. In my family, my grandmother was my constant cheerleader. She would compliment me when I felt the need to hide my face in shame after I had deemed it “ugly”. Living conveniently nearby, I made a habit of 18

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visiting my grandmother every afternoon after my “running to lose weight” agenda. It soon became a routine, and at times I could see her craning her head, waiting for me to reach. While she couldn’t see me watching her, the sight of her looking around and waiting for me became the reason I could never say no to her in the following situations. So, the general sequence of conversations and consequences happened every day, on loop, but never with lesser love. I’d be a walking reminder of sweat, and particularly its stench. The only reason I’d make a pitstop at my grandmother’s is that I always saw her waiting, and it would break my heart to watch her and not visit her. So, I would vigorously remove my shoes and socks with my feet – funny because I’d just finished my “exercising agenda” and yet took to lazy methods. I tried hard to at least wash my face before I saw her because I knew she would give me the warmest hug as soon as I walked in. I would ask her, “Naathama illaya, paati?” –– Am I not stinking, grandma? But she would joke about her age and the degrading efficiency of her nose. Leaving me standing, she would briskly walk, almost run into the house, and then I would hear the echo of her “come, sit”. Very aware of my malodour, I would take the plastic chair, greet my grandfather and talk about what we always talked about, the news and the weather. My paati would zoom in and out and finally slow down to human speed, presenting a variety of delicacies – her eagerness almost urging them into my mouth. My mind screamed “DIET”, and I would begin to explain to her, “Paati idhula sugar romba irukum, weight potudum” –– This has too much sugar, I’ll put on weight. Or, “Paati 19

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ippodha running panen, komatum!” –– I just did my running, I would feel nauseous! She would say things along the lines of Homemade = GOOD = no weight gain! Yet she always knew I was a tad bit too clever to succumb to that. Before I could convince her to sit down and make her understand that I was in no position to eat, especially after running, she would dart in and out again, only to come back with a different variety of food. “This you can eat, and I know that”, she would say, her genuine smile reminding me of how we share the same crooked front tooth. The next time around it would be fruits, loads and loads of them – oranges, apples, two types of bananas and whatnot. Knowing that this was indeed a well-crafted checkmate, I would say sheepishly, “Seri, paadhi apple, okaya?” –– Alright, half apple, okay? I would reach out to take the apple, and she would bolt out again, only to come back with not only sliced apples but peeled ones. As I settled down in the too-short plastic chairs, with my too sweaty self, holding a plate of perfectly peeled apples, and my stomach would sigh happily. And when I ate them, my mind wouldn’t remind me that an apple is a whooping 52 calories (I know it’s not a lot, but my mind is a magnifying glass). My mind wouldn’t even be thinking about weight, exercise, sweat or the next meal. It would be in peace, eating those apples with complete faith in my grandmother because if she said I wouldn’t gain weight, I chose to believe her. Another thing I believed is that food is our love language. She always had enough snacks to feed me for days. She would never let me into the kitchen, not even to put my dishes in the sink “Nee rest edu, naa onna paaka dhan wait panen.” 20

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–– You rest, I’ve been waiting to see you only. And that is how I would sit with my paati at our worn-out dining table, reminiscing the memories created around it. She would wrap her hand around mine, placing an extra “parcel” or box of whatever sweet she had made. “Poi saapdu.” –– Go eat –– she would say, and that would be our goodbye.

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

Birth of an Aviyal

Prithvi Patil

Chaicopy | Vol V | Issue I

“Amma, Please”

Mrudula Srivatsa

It is a Sunday morning. You want to have some good breakfast. You’re craving masala dosa. You wake up and brush your teeth while thinking of different ways to convince your mother to make masala dosas that morning. You try to think of any upcoming holidays, birthdays, or anniversaries that can serve as a reasonably strong excuse to eat something special that morning. You try to wake up your sibling, but they cover their head in their blanket in annoyance. You shake them again and say, “I’m going to try to convince Amma to make masala dosas today!” They pop their head out of the blanket and open one eye. You’ve got their attention. Now both of you are discussing in soft tones. No, it’s too far away from their anniversary to use that as a good reason. There is no one’s birthday this month, except Amma’s. You both decide not to bring that up in case she uses that as an excuse to not cook. Finally, after half an hour of discussion and a suspicious look from your father, as he passed by the room, you had your grand plan. “We’ll say we’ll do all the dishes after it’s done.” “Then we’ll say we’ll make the dosas as well. Anyway, we learnt how to make dosas in 7th standard only.” “All we need you to do is make the chutneys and palya, Amma.” “You’re such a good cook, Amma.” 23

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Then, on the count of three, both of you practice your best versions of “Amma, pleeeeease.” Armed with a master plan and confidence, you both go out through the house and to the kitchen. You see something is on the cooker. You hope it’s not khichdi. You decide to play safe. “Amma, what’s for breakfast?” you ask. Your mother has her back to you as she is chopping something at the kitchen counter. She says without turning, “I thought I’d make some nice vegetable khichdi this morning.” You and your sibling wince apprehensively. She continues, “But then there were no vegetables only at home. Then I saw that the dosa-idli batter was leftover, so I thought we can make off some masala dosas today.” Both of you jump with joy and hi-five each other with a triumphant “Yes!” 20 minutes later, all of you sit at the table with your 3 masala dosas each and your father says, “One child is 22 and the other is 25. Yet when you want special food, I see you two scheming in your rooms as if you were children again.” Your mother laughs at that, “Is that what happened? Both of you have lived outside home as well. Why do you still act like this? You know how to make these masala dosas yourselves as well.” You and your sibling look at each other and say, “It’s different at home, Amma!” 24

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Masala dosas. They give pure joy to anyone. I hope this recipe gives you as much joy as it has given me and my family. For the Coriander Chilli Chutney Ingredients Grated coconut Some tamarind Green chillies (at least 3, but add based on preference) Salt Directions Grind in a mixer to the consistency of choice. Add water to thin the chutney. For the Spicy Onion Chutney Ingredients Onions Dried red chillies (around 4-6) Salt to taste Directions Quarter the onions. Grind the ingredients in a mixer. The chutney should end up a bright red. Do not add water. Add garlic cloves if you want (I don’t, though). For the Potato Stuffing Ingredients Potatoes Chana dal Urad Dal 25

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Mustard seeds Chopped onion Chopped green chillies Turmeric Directions Boil potatoes. Peel them and mash them. In a pan or wok, add oil. Add mustard seeds and sputter. Add Chana and Urad dal (1 tsp each) and cook till slightly brown. Add chillies and onion. Cook until the onion is translucent. Add turmeric and salt to taste. Cook until the raw turmeric smell fades. Switch off the heat. Add the mashed potato to the mixture and mix well. For the Dosa Spread dosa batter on the pan. Pour ghee/oil around the circumference of the dosa. Use a spoon to spread onion chutney on the surface of the dosa as evenly as possible. Place a small amount of potato stuffing on the surface of the dosa. Leave to cook until crisp to personal preference (do not flip). Fold half of the dosa over stuffing and serve on a plate with coriander chutney.

Chaicopy | Vol V | Issue I

I Like My Coffee With Milk

Deepthi Priyanka

It was a Sunday morning. Nivi neatly folded her bedsheets and pāy, placing them in her nook. She darted across the hall and went past the room where her big brother and baby sister were still asleep. In the next hour, the threshold was decorated with a white rangoli, the house swept, the school shoes polished, and the plants watered. A now content Nivi, with single-minded determination, walked into the kitchen and watched her petite Amma brew some coffee. She towered over her by at least a foot – she had inherited her Appa’s physique and skin tone. The smell of coffee soon invaded her senses. For a split second, the fourteen-year-old was in utter bliss until Amma poured the black, murky mixture into steel tumblers and left it near the ammikallu. The room instantly turned dark and gloomy. Her lanky brother, fourteen months older than her, strutted in with her eleven-year-old dainty sister. While her brother sipped on a steaming cup of Boost, her sister gulped the coffee with indifference. They were the colour of milk. Her beloved coffee was black. Nivi was a quiet and demure child. One wouldn’t call her ambitious, but she wasn’t indolent either. After a scrumptious breakfast of hot, crispy dosas and spicy coconut chutney, she resumed the housework, although nobody insisted that she do it. By eleven o’clock, the tiny house was spick and span. Homework finished and books packed for school, Nivi sat in her corner. On an ordinary Sunday, she would have glowed after a job well done, celebrated with some fruits, and eagerly waited for the evening Tamil programs 27

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on Doordarshan. But today was no ordinary Sunday – her coffee was black; her brother drank Boost, and her sister didn’t seem to care. Her eyes followed Amma almost as if she could string an explanation by studying her. She silently deduced that it was no accident. Amma had only got a litre of milk from the paalkaren – it was half a litre short of the usual quantity. “I told Arokiyaraj that one litre will do from now on. You all drank Boost all these years. That is enough. You are grownups now.” Amma didn’t have to finish the sentence. Nivi and her sister were grown-ups now and black coffee labelled your maturity. Her brother was grown-up too, but boys needed the milk to shoulder family responsibilities. But she still couldn’t accept a life where she was denied milk. She could shoulder responsibilities too. Maybe they could take turns being grown-ups. But Nivi knew such logical explanations would fail to sway their Amma. Lost in her ruminations, she nearly missed her Thatha astride his bicycle greeting them cheerfully at the gate. She did not fail to notice the kaada pai in the bicycle carrier. Kaada pai was used for only one thing – carrying meat from the butcher’s shop. Sunday was the only day in the week they would cook meat and she had forgotten about it amidst the milk scandal. Nevertheless, she immediately lit up at the sight of her grandfather. At every opportunity, Nivi would stay at her maternal grandparents’ home as they lived nearby. She was particularly fond of her grandmother, who often chased away any children who made fun of Nivi’s skin tone or tall frame. As she made plans in her head to visit her Aatha, her 28

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Thatha delivered some devastating news. “Shiva kutty, Aatha told you to come there for lunch. I’m going to buy meat now; she is making that special varuval.” She waited. Her Aatha would call her too surely, right? But her Thatha pedalled away after a brief chat with Amma. It was a boys-only invitation. This was the meat scandal. Nivi realised she was losing ground and had to do something fast before she lost any more food to senseless rules. It was seven o’clock. The sun had set, and the television had been on for an hour. With everyone’s attention focused on the screen, Nivi launched phase one of her plan. “Amma, my back hurts.” Her mother turned towards her in disbelief, “At this age? How is that possible? You are so young.” “But my entire back hurts, Amma. I feel weak.” “You go get some rest now. Enough of watching television.” Nivi simply got up and walked through the hall, obstructing the television for a moment before reaching her nook so that everyone in the family could witness her plight. She unfolded her pāy, and as she spread the sheets, she pretended to wince in pain. Her lips curved into a smile as she covered her head to block out the light. She had their attention now, and in time she’d have her food back. The week passed by quickly and Nivi played hooky for 29

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three days. Amma was beginning to get concerned now, especially since her homemade medicinal oil failed to be effective. One afternoon, Chinnamama paid them a visit. He was Amma’s youngest brother and was very fond of his nephew and nieces. Nivi was then relishing every bite of her lunch. While her siblings callously consumed the food – which she surely thought they referred to as mere sustenance – Nivi took care to fully experience it. It was an elaborate process starting with manjal paruppu slightly overpowering the rice. Amma was a staunch believer of half a tablespoon of ghee for every ladle of rice and dal to preserve the latter’s flavour. But Nivi’s love for ghee always suppressed the dal and the house norm. Poriyal was the faithful stash of vegetables that never failed to enliven the dull steel grey canvas. A portion of the poriyal was always saved for rasam, the zesty but repetitive companion you don’t quite want to part with. Rasam rice is followed by thick and creamy curd with a sprinkle of salt and a pinch of lemon pickle, the delicious coda to every midday meal. Nivi was somewhere in the rasam phase when her Chinnamama arrived. Amma immediately launched into a conversation about Nivi’s worrying state. Chinnamama did not respond any differently than the others – except for one. “At this age? Back pain? It is unheard of. But I know a doctor who is a friend of mine. I’ll take her to his clinic today.” Phase two of the plan was a resounding success. That evening, she hopped onto Chinnamama’s bicycle carrier, carefully faking a grimace. But she faced yet another 30

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obstacle to her mission in the form of medical expertise. “How can she have back pain? She is young and healthy. I don’t see any problem with her,” the doctor declared after a brief examination. Nivi knew she should have gone with a more believable excuse. Still, back pain was what she heard the neighbourhood ladies complain about all the time. But she soldiered on and waited until the two men caught up with each other’s lives. She was proud of her little victory though; the doctor had prescribed a supplementary tonic, which she clutched tightly in her hands as they made their way back home. Upon returning, Chinnamama alleviated Amma’s mild apprehension by pronouncing the doctor’s verdict – she’s healthy. But Nivi still had an ace up her sleeve. From then on, every night as her family prepared to go to bed, Nivi would walk up to the dining table, a picture of misery, and slowly uncap the supplement, carefully measuring it out before swallowing it painfully. At long last, she drew a captivated audience, and someone finally piped up. “What’s that for?” Letting out a tired sigh, Nivi turned and faced her inquirer, “The doctor prescribed this medicine for me due to severe back pain. And he strongly encouraged me to drink lots of milk if my condition doesn’t improve since I may be lacking sufficient nutrition.” 31

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“Oh no. I’ll ask Arokiyaraj to give one and a half litres only. You come and get your glass of milk in the evening also, okay?” Amma said, spelling out her triumph. “Okay, Amma, if you insist.” “Also, did the doctor advise anything else?” “An egg every day, Amma,” she added solemnly, the final stroke of her master plan. The following Sunday, Nivi nestled in her nook, holding a steaming cup of coffee with milk. She took a whiff of its nutty aroma – it smelled of freedom. Soon she’d have her breakfast with an egg. Things were looking up. She took a sip muttering under her breath, “I like my coffee with milk.”

Chaicopy | Vol V | Issue I

Lime Pickles

Madhukari Guha

Drowsily I reach out for the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet, The hangover from yesterday persevering. My hands touch ash, empty beer bottles, and spent out cigarette butts, As I rummage through the cobwebs I’ve let settle over my days. Disappointed, still drowsy, I open the refrigerator, The empty white interior Glares at me in garish light, As I glare back, slowly inhaling the musty stench of rotting vegetables. On the verge of slamming the door shut, I notice, Tucked in a corner, the glass bottle Of lime pickles. My mother’s specialty, a gift from the time I last went home. I open it and breathe in the sweet aroma of childhood, Of fresh lime, ground spices, and strong mustard, Of a place and time long forgotten, Of gentle breezes, cotton candy clouds, autumnal Calcutta skies. I place the bottle on the countertop and pick up the duster. I’ll ask mother for the recipe of her lime pickles, I muse.

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

Dinner at Eight

‘How to cook rogan josh – for beginners.’ I throw my hands up in frustration. I’m sweating in this heat and my legs can’t stop shaking. At this point, I’m helpless. How do I do this? I look again. Prawn curry, Goan chicken – nothing seems good enough, significant enough even, for tonight. Shall I order in then? The rain is not too bad, some place will deliver. I’ll have time to clean the house too. Chinese food seems viable – good old Hakka noodles and that noxious chilli chicken. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water. But will it be too spicy now? A bland salad perhaps? But today doesn’t seem to be the day for tabbouleh or bell peppers. Pasta then, from Rico’s? Warm, flavourful, and filling – perfect for a Friday night in. I open the familiar red Zomato app, but a message pops up. ‘This restaurant is not serviceable due to bad traffic in your area.’ Wonderful. Maybe I could ask Raj to go there himself and pick something up. “Raj!” — I yell. No response. “Raj!” — I shout again, louder. Still no reply. I walk over to his room and find him fast asleep, an open 34

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book rising and falling steadily on his chest. No point waking him up, I reason. He’s had a long day at work. Sighing out loud, I turn around and see the packet of daal on the dusty shelf, illuminated by the single bulb in the kitchen. Daal, the only thing I liked eating as a child. Soon paraphernalia is strewn all around – vessels, spices, knives, and spoons. As the rice cooks, I peel some potatoes to toss with some capsicum, onions and chilli powder, hoping to recreate her preparation, but I doubt it will come close. It must smell good, for Raj saunters into the kitchen, freshly bathed and wide awake. He looks good today. Dinner is nearly ready, but I am not. I wonder if I should shave. Not everyone is fond of that roguish look I take pride in. I do it anyway, for her. I put on some perfume – English Lavender. It’s Raj’s favourite but it reminds me of her too. Raj clears the newspapers off the table, placing them on the sofa next to me. ‘Historic day for India as Section 377 is struck down’ scream the headlines. As he sets the table, my anxiety grows. Meal for three today, not two. It’s been a long time since I last saw her, ever since I moved in with Raj… I wonder how she looks now. A knock sounds, and my chest tightens. Raj offers to get it, but I think, I should. I open the door and for a moment, I’m shocked. She wears the same white saree with a delicate gold border, but I’m taller than her now and in the poor light, her skin is dull in comparison to the glint in her eyes. But her smile is just as I remember it – gentle and affectionate. My skin tingles when I sense Raj standing next to me, but I embrace her instead. “Welcome home, Ma. This is Raj.” 35

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

Onam Colours on a Banana Leaf

Prithvi Patil

Chaicopy | Vol V | Issue I

Food for Thought

Ekasmayi Naresh

If I were to interview food, I imagine this is how it would go: food, of the generic kind, something you like or have tried, or of which you know. Strange as this endeavour may seem I seek answers that I could, only through such means, glean. “So, food, how are we today?” “That’s not for me to say,” it resigned, “maybe venerated and worshipped, or banned and rare.” “Cheeky,” I admit, “definitely food for thought.” “Well, at the state we’re in right now, that is probably all we’ve got.” “What do you mean?” “I can’t explain, discuss, or debate, my days are numbered, quite literally, I come with an expiry date.” “The bare minimum, then? Something to pass muster,” I plead. “Fine, but take it with a pinch of salt.” “So, spill the beans, what do your remonstrations mean?” “It’s all very confusing, humans blow hot and cold – celebrating me as godly and divine…” 37

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Eagerly I interject, “rightfully so, you’re a life sustaining force—” “—You didn’t let me finish, there’s more to this half-baked idea, only some of me is held in such high regard, for the rest is incendiary, to the status of a crime, it would be relinquished.” “Well, that’s not all, I am a pawn in this petty battle pulled from all sides, hanged, drawn, and quartered; Some stake a claim on what makes me sacred – to be made pure when made with butter, clarified, while impure they pronounce when made with water, and when the touch of certain hands, I endure. You need me on all days, but notwithstanding the calendar’s dictum; likewise, mind the map’s maxims across state-lines, I might be known by different names, my price tag, the chameleon, made worse when fights over origin and patents get piled on.” “It’s gotten me in a pickle so much to wrap my head around, and of late, you’ve taken to biting the hands that feed, leaving the edifice of common sense 38

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shaken to the ground. Hunger plagues the populace and anecdotes of the desperate feeding on rotten mangoes, ironically, in abundance grow.” “That certainly gives me a lot to chew on, although, you’ve made a meal of only the low hanging fruit,” I quip. “Joke all you want, but you’ll be left to eat humble pie. This is all a bitter pill to swallow, but the truth, you cannot deny.”

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

Maggi-Girl

Sookthi Kav

Today after class at two in the afternoon, I came back to my dark, damp hostel and stood in front of the dirty twin stove, boiling my little vessel of water. It was cold – so shivering cold. I was not alone. By my side was another girl, and on her stove was a pan of steaming half-done noodles. We did not speak. I did not look at her. I would not recognize her if I saw her at the hostel mess tonight. Yet for five minutes – five long, infinite minutes while I waited for my water to bubble, we had only each other and our silence. From the corner of my eye, I saw her make her noodly lunch. The crumpled bright yellow packet of maggi on the side. Carefully measured flask-water poured into a steaming pan. A big spoon tossing and turning the instant noodles over and over and over. It was only maggi. She did not make it like me – did not carelessly dump the noodlecake into a steel vessel (of water levels that differed each time), wait five minutes and then proclaim it done. Instead, she made sure every spindly arm of the maggi was cooked. Halfway through it, she added in exactly one and a half spoons of warm water. The masala that came in the little silver packet was precisely and evenly distributed across the twisting, slithering mass. And when the maggi hissed and 40

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opened its hundred eyes, she gingerly took a steaming string, tasted it, and then nodded. I wondered if that is what her mother did, too. At home as a child when she played in her kitchen, perhaps she saw her mother cook dal and rajma and all other warmwinter-lovelies; and maybe now that she lives in this dark, dingy place she misses her mother too, just like I do. Maybe in the sounds of her spoon scraping her Teflon-coated-pan she hears the bustle and noise of her busy home. In taking fifteen minutes to cook instant noodles, maybe she tries to escape from this reality to spend some time in the one she loves and misses. I do wonder if she noticed me, and what she thought of me. Did she look at me feeling the steam from my boiling water with my hands and wonder if my mother did the same? (because my mother does not; I was only trying to warm up my freezing hands a little.)

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

I Think I Hate Vanilla Ice Cream

Laya Satyamoorthy

I’m sitting down; someone’s taken my heels off for me. They’re sitting down with a couple of other people and me. I don’t know where we are, but that’s okay; they’re here. They’re both here. He’s next to me, she’s sitting across from me, and they’re talking to everyone else in the room. I’m tired. They’re talking, I’m sure I’m talking too, but maybe I’m not. I’m leaning against him, he has his arm around me, and we’re watching her tell a story. Maybe it’s one from tonight. I’m not completely sure. I should be drinking water, I think. Someone just handed me vanilla ice cream, and I think I asked for it. It’s cold and sweet, and I feel nothing, but maybe I should keep eating it anyway. It’s cold, and I feel grounded. I’m here, but they’re not. Oh, someone’s playing music. The lights are dim. They’re gone; where did they go? I know the people here too. Not as well, not well enough to be around them right now. “I recognize that song from that movie!” — I hope I said that out loud. “Did they go somewhere?” They’re out for a smoke! Someone told me that a couple of times. They’ll be back by the time I finish my ice cream. Someone told me that too. I think I hate vanilla ice cream. There’s too much of it; this is taking forever. I wish it would melt faster, and I could eat it faster, and then maybe they would be back faster.

Chaicopy | Vol V | Issue I

How did we end up here? The both of us were at his place this afternoon. We were lying down under the fan, talking about the ghosts that had been haunting my room for the past few weeks. He thinks they might be demons, which is basically the same thing, in my opinion. He was explaining to me how they were definitely not the same thing. She was sitting on a chair, spinning around until she found a ukulele under his bed, and she was excited. He said it was half broken, but she wanted to learn anyway. We sat on his bed, and he taught her a chord. She wanted all of us to sing, so he started to play, and she was so happy. She was bobbing along and said she felt good. No one sang that afternoon, but he told me she sings really well. I didn’t know that. Maybe they love each other too. I don’t think I’ve ever felt safer than at that moment. I should’ve told them; I think I did. The ice cream’s getting softer, but I don’t think I’ve made much progress. There’s still half the bowl left, but I want them here right now. I need them here, sitting next to me on this mattress, telling me that ghosts and demons aren’t the same, forcing me to sing, and smoking. It’s still cold and sweet and endless, but I don’t know what else to do. I should eat it faster! It’s freezing, which I should’ve expected. I’m sure I should be enjoying this more. I think I would be enjoying this more if it wasn’t standing in the way of me seeing them. It makes sense to me – the time I choose to spend with them – and I know that I wouldn’t get nearly enough time with them. I think it’s hurting my throat; I can’t be too sure at the moment. I hope the people here don’t think I’m weird. I think I’m being weird. I hope they don’t notice how fast I’m 43

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eating or ask me any questions. I don’t think I could answer them without being completely honest. Complete honesty is so embarrassing. Telling someone how much you love someone else is so embarrassing. The ice cream is hurting my throat, it’s not melted enough not to be a choking hazard, and I’m eating it anyway. I don’t think I could slow down if I wanted to. I don’t think this much ice cream was meant to fit on a tiny, flat wooden spoon. I’m sure I’m going to spill some on this very complicated shirt I borrowed from her. She’d forgive me. Where are they? I should’ve gone with them. I shouldn’t have even started eating the ice cream. I shouldn’t have started this. Loving people so intensely without fear or shame is impossible, and I hate it. I feel like I’m going insane. They’re down the street, they’ve been gone only for a couple of minutes. I know that the ice cream has nothing to do with when they’ll be back. I just wanted some control over when they’ll be back. Otherwise, I’d feel powerless – because I am. I miss them. I’ve never missed anyone more. I don’t think I’ll ever tell them, but maybe I should. I love them without a doubt, but with some hesitation. I love them, miss them, and they make my life so much better. But why is that so terrifying? Why am I so scared? They make me happy. I think I feel it in my chest, an ever-expanding pulse of energy. I feel it all in my chest, and for once, it’s not painful. I’m almost done with the ice cream. I have a couple of spoons left. It’s cold and sweet. I think someone’s at the door.

Chaicopy | Vol V | Issue I

knead me some bread

Angad Maniyambath

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Living Lasagna

Prithvi Patil

Chaicopy | Vol V | Issue I

When My Uterus Bleeds Out

Uma Padmasola

When my uterus bleeds out I eat ramen for my cramps. It’s a ramen that’s more broth than noodles Warm liquid to soothe. Some sufferers drink peppermint tea It’s ramen with a rich broth for me. When my uterus bleeds out I sniff oranges for my nausea. I suck lemons when I feel really really sick Citrus scents churn me right side up. Some sufferers take medicine or mint I sniff orange peel and lemon rind. When my uterus bleeds out I eat chocolate, for I crave it. I crave desserts, you name it Nothing cloying though, no ghee sweets. Some sufferers eat meat. I’m vegetarian, yet I crave meat. When my uterus bleeds out I eat dates and jaggery Even beetroot to guard against becoming anaemic. 47

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Some sufferers take iron supplements which bloat me, unfortunately. I stick to dates and jaggery. When my uterus bleeds out I have diarrhea But I can’t stop eating. I eat ramen, since maida moves slower through the system. I’m always being emptied I want to feel full, and even the cramps feel like hunger pangs. Some sufferers eat curd rice But I’m lactose intolerant If I’m not sensitive to it (nose-wise, stomach-wise) all food is nice. I eat food that makes me feel better and avoid food that make me worse when my uterus bleeds out. But it’s so hard to figure out.

Chaicopy | Vol V | Issue I

blanched

Serene George

I watch her eat. Against the dilapidated old wall of the run-down canteen, there lies the only blue roundtable. You don’t sit there when you have two and a half friends. So, you sit far away from the raucous laughter and impromptu food fights in the opposite corner; at the beige single seats. At first, it was because of the song the boy at your table played. It fit so well with the passage in my book that I sat there, disparate in front of my cold plate of vegetable rice, needlessly overwhelmed. You were not listening to the song. You poised over steaming mounds of rice, grip firm, the spoon’s steely glint caught in your eyes. A meticulous spreading was taking place. You went in seamless rounds, round and round and round. And I was hypnotized.

The food I ate that day did not leave me. The weight of it laid in the pit of my stomach in pretty white mounds of snow, speckled with reds and oranges and greens. Buoyant fluffs that swirled in carefree circles.

It was a ritual. Dosas stacked concentric, bowls of curry 49

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evenly spaced, and pickles slid to right-hand corners. Molasses of sprawling noon heat weighed down on me but never trickled on you. The plate was lifted lightly, the quirk of slight wrists lively, the mixing seasoned and thorough. Reverence coated the roof of my mouth, an unleaving aftertaste. I wished for rain. The blue roundtable would clear, one by one, and only you would remain. Tea was the monsoon special. Slow sips, long-winded stirring, short puffs of warm steam, upturned green teacups with spoons precariously perched, and inviting space all around.

Before the summer fruit juice menu that you meditate upon was put up, new signs came up. Chairs spread apart, screeching on red-oxide floors. White and green tape streak across the canteen floors. You wash your hands. The boy at your table helps the cook lift the blue roundtable to the innards of the kitchen. Behind plastic screens and isolated corners, single-seat voices mumble half-chewed ruminations on closing canteens and last suppers. You wash your hands of f

The food I ate that day did not leave me. The weight of it laid at the pit of my stomach in undigested trenches, clogging unpleasantly, lurching at the seams. Bloating nausea rose in erratic peaks. And I heave and retch 50

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NaCl

Komal Badve

On the 14th of April 2019, I was deveining prawns. It was a warm afternoon, and my mother had just bought a fresh batch which was to be prepped for dinner. As usual, the responsibility to clean and marinade them was mine. Mom chirpily said to me “Make a springy mix, if you can. Something fresh.” I stood in the tiny kitchen looking at her, wondering how many ounces of enthusiasm I would need to utter a simple “yes”. Instead, I nodded meekly as she looked at me with patient eyes and a kind smile. That Sunday afternoon as I stood over the kitchen sink, attempting to slowly prep the prawns, the anxiety I was so desperate to evade took over me. The first wash produced mucky water, and I could see little scraps of shells, and stray, unwanted intestinal tracts slowly swirl towards the sinkhole. As the water drained, the waste collected itself in the strainer. The next few washes birthed clearer swirls of water, easing the tension in my veins. There was something oddly satisfying about the repetitiveness of the act. The water gradually filling in the vessel, me slowly moving the prawns around in it, and then draining the muck away. Oddly satisfying, oddly cleansing. A purge of unwanted emotions. At last, I got to my favourite part. Prawn by prawn, I deveined the lot. They felt soft to touch but I was scared of butchering them past the point of no return. Their delicacy reminded me of my own at that moment. I was hurting, lonely and felt absolutely hopeless. So, I tenderly picked up one prawn at a time and scored them. Scooping out the unwanted intestinal tract. Purging not only myself but also the noble 51

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crustacean of shit. One by one, I recalled all the times I had been wronged, mistreated, taken for granted. One by one, I cut open the prawns straight down the middle, picked out the tract, and threw it into the sink below. A few more rounds of washing and swirling vortexes followed until I was left with a kilogram of prawns – fresh, clean, and untarnished by the spinelessness of an individual who only thought about themselves. Cut to the 14th of April 2020, where I once again found myself stooped over the kitchen sink, deveining prawns. Less anxious this time, I thought about how I had come a full circle. How much I had grown over the past year, and how moving on had helped me develop a stronger spine. That day I told my mother I wouldn’t be going for a springy marinade. I personally didn’t wish to repeat the disastrous, watery flavouring I had prepared a year ago. The salt in my half-hearted coriander and mint mixture proved to be a powerful desiccant. This time, a little more mature in matters of cooking as well as the heart, I used it sparingly. I changed the marinade completely and even patted my prawns dry before mixing the two. Two tablespoons of coriander powder, half a teaspoon each of turmeric and red chilli powder, and one tablespoon of ginger-garlic paste later, my robust marinade sprung to life. I let my prawns cure in the flavourful paste, for no less than 4 hours, before it was time for me to start cooking. (Believe me, reader. This marinade will change your life.) As I started cooking my prawns that warm evening, I decided to make a semi-dry curry. Shallow frying took up too much time and oil in my opinion. Moreover, I didn’t want the waterworks to begin like they had previously. 52

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In some hot oil, I added cumin seeds and a whole julienned onion, cooking the latter until golden-brown. One whole dry red chilli, chopped up into little pieces including the seeds for that heaty kick followed. Once I was convinced the spice had bloomed, I added my prawns, gently mixing and incorporating the ingredients on a low flame. I couldn’t bear a broken heart again. I then let my creation simmer slowly. I watched the little bubbles at the side of the pan gradually increase in number. By the looks of it, my boldly flavoured curry was slowly developing a rich profile. As the curry thickened and prawns cooked, I tasted my love. I was instantly swallowed into the past when I questioned the very foundation of that strong emotion. But the wholeheartedness of my present actions, mixed with the savoury punch of heat, coughed me back to the present. Spring found its way back to me that evening, in the form of a lemon. Squeezed all over the curry – carefully, making sure no seeds fell in – I gave it another taste. The brightness reminded me of my own at that moment. I wondered then, how sometimes revenge is a dish best served piping hot and bright and robust, like a punch in the face. A forceful blow that hits you when you least expect it and the absence of a spine doesn’t help. But something was missing. There it sat, peacefully contained in a jar. Waiting for its turn to step in and help my prawns and pride achieve some much-needed closure. Salt.

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

Lemon Tart

Sakshi Shivprasad

Chaicopy | Vol V | Issue I

Brown and Spicy

Meera Anand

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

Chaicopy | Vol V | Issue I

Kaapi Sessions

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

Madras Filter Kaapi

Meera Anand

Chaicopy | Vol V | Issue I

bhatterpoka

Aditi Paul

Of the things I remember about my grandmother, her crisp sarees linger at the forefront. When I say ‘crisp’ I do not just mean well ironed, with a clean newspaper tucked in the folds bearing the brunt of the crinkle. Sometimes my grandmother’s sarees would sound like a dry biscuit cracking as she folded them, hot out of the sun. Yet, they fell neatly and moved fluidly, adapting to her stance as she walked. She swore by starch water. I used to think of it as a fairly Bengali trait. Now I realise it was something more prevalent in her generation itself, the last practitioners of the increasingly theoretical traditions. No one else could draw starch out of rice like my grandmother. She was laborious in her process, rice being the first to be started on and the last dish to be finished. A muri-ghonto - a laborious fish head pulao? Less than 35 minutes of work. Shukto - a bitter stew, chochori - a stir-fry of vegetables, macher-jhol - fish curry, paaturi steamed fish? Give her an hour for two. Rice? God save you. I exaggerate. Yes, she took her time with the rice, but it was the crowning dish after all. “Bina bhatter dupurer khabar? Kotha na bolbi toh bhalo hobe.” — Lunch without rice? Preposterous. The less you speak, the better. We look at food in movies and collectively lose our mind, driven to the edge by hunger and gluttony, the want to be able to sniff the animated steam rising from various Ghibli spreads. Oh, Asian cuisine! we cry. Oh, east Asian cooking, 59

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oh the simplicity, oh the colours! Oh, if we only had their ingredients. Oh, if we could eat like them. What a feast! And yet we undermine and overlook the staple across our lands and theirs, and then some. The humble bowl of rice, piled out of the rice-cooker and onto the bowl by a loving parental figure. The ladling of rice a symbol of care distributed equally and magnanimously. A simple accompaniment, the second lead to the main dishes. We all feel for it but there is another who is the star of the show. We look at the ricecooker in movies, we look at the steam rising, we understand that to be the signifier of the beginning of the meal. No one cooks rice like my grandmother did. The artistic basmati falls off gracefully from Sanjeev Kapoor’s palm onto the bowl. Its fluffiness, quality, and vibrant white are attested for and offset against his chef’s whites – the perfect advertisement. And yet, my grandmother’s rice looked the most inviting – warm and fragrant, sometimes flavoured with bay leaf but usually independent of everything, including salt. She’d soak the rice after meticulous rounds of cleaning, and it would slowly absorb the water and dispense its impurities. Then she would take the biggest degchi, our beloved bhatter degchi (rice pot), and fill it up with water, letting it come to a rolling boil before adding the rice. Never did the water overflow; never did she have to pull an accidental Archimedes. Eyeballing and expertise were her instruments of measurement. The rice would rise to the top and she’d skim, skim, skim the foam off, slicing the water with her hatha - the rice ladle. Without pinching, without breaking, without touching, she 60

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would know when the rice is cooked and when to cut the heat off. Now there is a hot pot of cooked rice and starch water. Ah, the famed starch water. She’d place the lid, get the cloth and start draining it out onto another bowl in the sink below. The steam would fog up her glasses, make her wry grey hair rise around her like Puck’s crown of brambles and her forehead would bead with sweat. She’d continue straining. I often peered over the sink in fascination, the steam unable to affect me, a child whose identity lay in her carefully chosen sartorial choice of the genji (vest). What could mere steam do to me, who had mastered the art of ventilated clothing in Mumbai’s humidity? (As it turns out, a lot of good; steam helping my skin clear during treacherous puberty.) What lay in the sink was the wonder of wonders. A greenish grey liquid, viscous in its consistency, drawing tighter with time as it cooled. A thin sheen of starch’s malai forming on the surface that I would only tear apart to watch it form again. It was a small bowl of starch water, and yet she soaked in it two to three sarees in a row. They’d marinate in their personal bathwater overnight, my grandmother having twisted and wrung them every four hours earlier. Morning after saw her drain the starch water out and hand wash the sarees with soap. The soaked sarees smelt of mushy, sticky rice; cloistering and rotten. “I hate this smell,” I’d tell her, sitting in the bathroom with her and breathing it all in nonetheless. Finally washed and rid of all smell (the final products were neutral to the nose), they’d be whipped out vigorously into three folds and hung to dry on the warmest window with the sharpest rays. 61

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The next day she’d wear her washed sarees and none looked a day over bought. Colour intact, pressed into neat folds, she presented a picture of the neatest drape, all done without an iron, and benefactor of the starch. My favourite memory? My grandmother heaving the cooked rice to the table, calling out “bhatterpoka, bhat khete ai,” — You rice lover, come eat — with a smile on her face, using her drape to wipe her wrinkled forehead.

Chaicopy | Vol V | Issue I

Mouthful of Marigolds

Hansika Jethnani

When I ask my Dada what he remembers of the partition, He tells me not much. but there was this beautiful mango tree in Sindh… How generous a fruit the mango must be that he cannot remember a journey packed with bleeding bodies on trains and soil soaked with rage but he smiles with glee at the thought of a mango tree. The tree must be special sneaking past buried trauma climbing out as a fond memory Maybe, that is just how our brains are wired to function Because if you ask me what I remember about my childhood, I’ll say not much. but I loved the smell of a fresh crate of alphonso mangoes in my Nani’s house An anticipated arrival once a week, every summer I spent in Bombay A sun of its own kind – illuminating lusciously glazed with freshness 63

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I could never wait to gorge on its sweetness relish in its juice slurping – a song to my tongue rolling in a glorious field of mango trees. I think as a nation we consume enough mangoes that if were equated to the amount of empathy needed to stop legacies of violence birthed from the partition that are still devouring this nation We could actually end the oppression. Today I saw a sunset the colour of a mango I thought, maybe, I could swallow the sky whole…

Chaicopy | Vol V | Issue I

Summer Dreams

Aditi Bhattacharjee

I crave for imarti and achaar, the sorcery of son papdi and the magic of mysore pak melting in my mouth, the cool surprise of home-made aam panna and the tangy happiness of panipuri in the evening from the mohalla’s favorite chaat stall, the mischief of pocketing that abandoned Rs. 1 coin to get a cola stick after school, at times even a 5 Rs. Dosa from the canteen that can’t match up to a 5-star restaurant’s in taste. I crave for the crunch of carefree days and the flavour of innocence & simple joys when I bite into the delicious cone of memories from back when ice-cream was a luxury, to be saved for rare occasions like birthdays & weddings, when Kwality Walls & Dinshaws meant more than Baskin Robbins & Gelato when cassata hadn’t been eclipsed by the theatrics of nitrogen when spicy guava was just that and not another new-fangled idea to fool children into tasting fruit. I need an everlasting scoop of rainbowraspberry, strawberry, mint chocolate chip, kesar pista, orange sherbet, red velvet with burnt almond fudge and creamy vanilla, a generous dose of raisins, nuts and candies with a sense of déjà vu 65

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

Kuswar

Samara Chandavarkar

Chaicopy | Vol V | Issue I

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

Thoughts over Coffee

Jacqueline Williams

Chaicopy | Vol V | Issue I

As I start creating this illustration I revisit Hope Gangloff’s “Rainy Day with Babka in New York”, Thor Wickstrom’s “Coffee and Bagel, New York Breakfast” and Ralph Goings’s “Dunkin’ Donuts Coffee Shop”. I try to recollect all the different representations of coffee I have ever come across. I try not to think of that one letter dated June 12th, 1943 to Elizabeth Booth, with a round coffee cup stain, from my thesis book Beatrix Potter’s Letters. I think about it so much, not thinking about it is an achievement in itself. I am also reminded of the gradual emergence of CCD chains when I was growing up. “A lot can happen over coffee” was promoted with such profligacy that it soon acquired the attribute of all-too familiar objects, like dirt over a lens. I recall this one line from Jeanette Winterson’s book Lighthousekeeping wherein she writes, “I woke you up to boiling coffee and bacon and eggs. You were sleepy and slow, and sat half-dozing in my dressing gown on the steps, shivering a bit in the late-year sun”. As I finish this illustration I am suddenly aware of the fact that I have used six different synonyms of “remember” in trying to come up with a concise caption. Is this what T.S Elliot meant when he wrote “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons”? Referring to how much of our time we spend on what is small and inconsequential, such as drinking coffee, such as pondering on things that are already past.

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A Reminiscence of Cake and Biscuit

Adithi Arun

One of my favourite pastimes to this day is listening to my mother’s stories, from the latest gossip to old family tales. The most memorable of which are her recollections of our ancient bakery, the first bakery in Kerala – The Royal Biscuit Factory (now named Mambally Royal Biscuit Factory) started and owned by the Mambally family in Thalassery, Kannur district. It was also the first bakery started by an Indian for the Indians. The bakery had humble beginnings. Mambally Bapu, my great great granduncle, started by catering milk, bread, and biscuits to the British in the 1880s. He decided to expand and make it popular with the local community. With more than 40 varieties of baked goods that incorporated a taste of his native land, like using toddy for fermentation (yeast wasn’t available in India yet). Never before had someone made such an ambitious venture at the time, which paid off when the bakery gained repute and different branches started opening up in different districts. My great grandfather himself opened a branch in Kozhikode under the name Modern Bakery. Some of my mother’s fondest childhood memories are associated with it, returning from school at tea-time eagerly waiting for her uncle to see what ‘dessert of the day’ would be. She talks of eating piping hot, fresh-out-of-the-oven sweets like ‘Jap cakes’, puffs, halwas, and different varieties of biscuits and tea cakes. In summers, when the rest of the family would come down to the family house for vacation, the scene in the evening was the ritual squabbling 70

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amongst cousins for the ‘best piece’. It makes me quite jealous when I hear these stories because hey, who wouldn’t want free, everyday access to a bakery? Oh, the family gatherings sound nice too, I guess. Although my mother terribly misses the ginger biscuits, her most incessant complaint remains eating a ‘good’ plum cake, since she’s never found a decent substitute. Every Christmas, mom laments that the plum cakes we get in Bangalore don’t taste ‘authentic enough. There is an interesting story of how the plum cake was introduced in India. A popular one that can be found anywhere online now. The story starts with a British farmer named Murdoch Brown who owned a cinnamon farm in Anjarakandy, and wanted a plum cake for Christmas, as is tradition in Europe. He went to Mambally Bapu and gave him all the ingredients, provided instructions on how to bake the cake and suggested that he use a French brandy. But Bapu had his own ideas about how he would go about this novel project. He procured the mould from a blacksmith in Dharmadam, sourced the choicest of spices from farms along the Malabar coast and introduced a desi flavour by using a local brew made using cashew apple and kadalipazham, a variety of banana. A week later, when Brown tasted the final product, he described it “as one of the best cakes he had ever eaten” and ordered a dozen more!

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

For those interested, this plum cake recipe, although not the original, is one from my mother’s cookbook: Prep time: 30 mins Cook time: 45 mins Ingredients • 1 cup plain flour • 1/2 cup chopped cashew nuts • 1/4 cup black raisins • 1/2 cup mixed dry fruits (dates, cherries, orange peels, etc.) • 1/2 cup white sugar (for sugar syrup) • 3/4 cup white sugar (for cake batter) • 2/3 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature • 3 eggs • 1/2 tsp cinnamon powder • 1/4 tsp clove powder (see notes) • 1 tsp baking powder • 1 tsp vanilla extract • A pinch of salt Instructions 1. In a pan on medium heat, melt 1/2 cup sugar slowly. 2. It will first melt and then turn into a dark brown goop. Keep stirring and let it turn a deep, dark, caramel colour. Don’t let it burn. 3. Turn off heat and add about 1/4 cup water. The sugar will harden. 4. Turn the heat back on and slowly heat the mixture until the sugar crystals dissolve. 5. This will take around 10 mins. 6. Let this cool and set aside. 7. Preheat the oven to 350F / 180C. 72

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8. Add 3 tbsp flour to the dry fruits and nuts and dredge completely to coat it. This is so that they don’t sink to the bottom of the batter while baking. Set aside. 9. Mix the remaining flour and baking powder, spices, and salt until well combined. 10. Beat the butter and 3/4 cup sugar until fluffy – about 10 mins by hand, 3-4 mins with an electric beater. Add vanilla and mix until combined. Next, add 1 egg and beat. Then add a bit of the flour mixture and fold. Likewise, alternate between the eggs and flour mixture until they are used up. 11. Add the cooled caramel and dredged fruits and gently fold in. Pour batter into a greased cake pan and smoothen the top. 12. Bake for 50-55 mins until the top turns a dark brown, and when a skewer inserted into the cake, comes out with dry crumbs. 13. Start checking from 45 mins to see if the cake is done. 14. The top will look like it’s overdone but don’t worry, make sure the inside is also completely cooked. 15. Dust with icing sugar when the cake is completely cooled. Although you find bakeries in every nook and cranny of the country now, Kerala remains the largest market for plum cakes. The Mambally family bakeries are very particular about the quality of their products and still do not commercially distribute them which has led them to gradually lose their popularity. However, they operate to this day, and are still managed by family members. Interestingly, the painting of the very first cake gifted by Raju to Murdoch Brown still welcomes customers in every bakery. So, I hope the next time you are in Thalassery, get yourself a slice of history!

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The Cup of Tea

Achala Gupta

Bound to life With afternoon memories Of laughter and simple joys Anecdotes beside crackling fire A sip of tea and Endless conversations without tire Every Eve is best celebrated Every day is an Eve with family The conversations that we remember Are recollected With a concoction of tea The three letter word Sums it all With what it truly means Conversations with family and friends Without whom happiness Is parable As success can bring joy only latently But sharing it with family Over a cup of coffee Can materialize happiness When we know “Someone is happy for me” We tell our friends later how we cried As without them, tears of remembrance cross our eyes If I said that I’m not bound I would have lied Just as Hollie lied to herself As she cried “No one belongs to anyone” 74

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“We don’t even belong to ourselves” One finds solace in a few Although the globe is a family Just as we felt in Breakfast At Tiffany’s We all can dance to the same tune On the path of life we find it difficult to say farewell As we leave with a last breath They remember us as they step down from the stairwell Of our funeral With tears in their eyes And how much they wish, they could talk to us one last time Every conversation that they had over the one thing The cup of tea Which like the nectar of eternity Keeps two souls bound and yet sets them free The warmth that it brings Forever stays in one’s heart And glows when they breathe a sigh And thank the fire within The fire, whose vigour is a summation of all the conversations Over the heart warming cup of tea

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

Exploring the Flavours of India through the Adventures of Feluda

Ditsa Mandal and Abhista Goswami

The other day my friend Ditsa and I sat down to have some tea. Seeing each other had become a rare occurrence these days. So, when she finally found herself with enough free time (and less traffic on the roads), she came over for a visit and I brought out my translated The Complete Adventures of Feluda to show her what had been taking up my free time during the lockdown. Her bright eyes twinkled in response to viewing my spoils. “Culinary culture is often deliciously blended into many works of popular literature devoured by us as readers, thanks to how it brews itself into the literary text to give it a distinctive flavour. And said literature also includes Satyajit Ray’s Bengali cult detective, the great Feluda.” “Oh, really?” I lifted an eyebrow. “I do remember reading about aspects of food here and there, but never in a way that I could enjoy it.” I gestured to the still-warm tea and halfeaten biscuits on our plate, then winked to reassure her that I was joking. “If you observed that, then you would reach my level, Topshe.” She joked, and I rolled my eyes, knowing full well that she was getting at something that I couldn’t. “The Feluda stories explore not only the present mystery at hand but also regional food cultures, wherever the setting takes our main cast. Almost every Feluda story has some local delicacies 76

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simmering in it and often the particularities of food reflect on the plot, simultaneously enriching and helping it to proceed further.” “This chai, for example.” She gestured to my cup, almost making me cough. “Do you know how many times tea features in Feluda’s adventures? Or even when our beloved narrator Topshe first mentions having tea?” I shook my head in confusion. “How would I ever know that?” “Why, it’s such a staple that he drinks tea right in the first story to be published in Sandesh Feludar Goendagiri. It also provides an insight to his mood – he is irritable about Feluda leaving him behind to pursue a mystery, so we do not get an in-depth description about it.” Seeing my clear interest, she smiled, continuing. “In Joto Kando Kathmandu, the three musketeers are in the chilled climate of the mountains in Guptakashi, where they satiate themselves with hot ‘jalebis’, ‘kochuri’ and – you guessed it – tea. This meal perfectly suits the weather and the exhausting journey they are undergoing. However, while we read Jahangirer Swarnamudra, we observe that our trio enjoys a meal with the hilsa fish and shorshe-paste, in a bungalow of a bygone era on the bank of the Ganges. One might think they got the fish fresh from there, right?” My mouth had almost started watering at this point. Why, even I would have barely described a flimsy cup of tea in proper detail if I could choose to have such good food instead! Topshe was feeling more relatable by the second. 77

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“Then in Bhuswargo Bhayangkar, the dinner with steaming chicken curry and rice perfectly suits the shivery cold weather of a Kashmir night and captures the cheery mood of Feluda and his company holidaying over there.” “No more, Ditsa!” I cried. “If you continue on in this manner, how will I enjoy my meagre tea and biscuits?” She snorted at my expression, but evidently must have felt a shred of pity enough to switch back to what was on our plates. “Don’t you worry, even tea and snacks play a major role in the stories! The snacks that are taken along with tea keeps changing accordingly with the seriousness of the situation. In Robertson-er Rubi, when Feluda is musing about the case he handles, he has tea with only biscuits. But in the same story, when they are enjoying a trip to Mama-Bhagne rocks, they help themselves with tea and nankhatai, which is a sort of traditional Indian cookie. Royal Bengal Rahassya gives us mango sherbet instead of tea! However, in Tintoretto-r Jishu, when Feluda is in Hong Kong, he is served tea with foreign biscuits.” “It’s almost like Topshe is a sort of a food connoisseur himself in the way that Ray portrays him. Tell me, does he write in such depth about more public places to eat, too? Like a dhaba, or a restaurant which doesn’t have a homely feeling to it?” “Ray takes utmost care to focus on old Kolkata restaurants, an example being Feluda enjoying tea and sandwiches at Blue Fox, which is popular for this combination. Again, Srinathda, Feluda’s servant-cum-cook serves every guest 78

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in the house with tea, biscuits and chanachur as snacks, which is a combination familiar to every middle-class Bengali household.” I sat up in my chair, finishing what remained of our snacks. A familiar combination indeed! Why, now I would go through the intricacies of how food had been depicted in the stories, for sure! “That’s enough about Indian food. How about something else? Chinese for example?” Ditsa pondered on it before offering me a satisfactory explanation. “Through the exploration of local food, Ray brings up a vast range of cuisines, but it definitely does not restrict itself only within the country. In Tintoretto-r Jishu, Feluda is in Hong Kong and there are mentions of a Cantonese restaurant and a restaurant in Kaulun. The story captures the details of typical Hong Kong refreshments that would be served – from fried snake to snake soup and snake meat. Again, when Feluda is in Kathmandu, Nepal, Ray completes his depiction of the city with its popular local dish, momos and describes the dish as having originated in Tibet,it’s even recommended as a must-have for Feluda’s friend, Jatayu.” Those last words made up my mind. “I don’t know if Jatayu took the recommendation, but I will! It’s been a while since we’ve had momos – let’s order some right now!” Ditsa smiled widely. “Feluda would approve, if only you took on the role of a writer and narrated this incident as well!”

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

papa roti

Sakshi Shivprasad

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bagels

Angad Maniyambath

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

Dosa, a Demigod

Arul Kirubakaran

The pan was a viper Its burnished steal a hiss For in it lay a Promethean flame, Domestic creation, a divine crepe. Winter followed summer Snowfall most heavy A ladle’s graceful dance, Carving ivory most circular. Beauty in the mundane, to Father an art His dosa fulfilling Maslow’s Prophecy, summer harvest hued, A foundation in the drizzle of oil. A ladle as a vulture, merciless in Its circling, the sharp edge feinting Some edges ready, some naked, A phone in 2007, meant to be flipped. As night turns to day, the viper Hisses once more, grand conclusion. The edge of a parturition, to leave The pan, scraped from its mother. Glory in creation, from fermented Miasma, to savory amber sheen, A tilt of the wrist, metal arms folding 82

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A dosa in two, Dravidian origami. I wonder yet, the specifics of what Makes his art his alone – Is it the water that must be ice cold? Or the water cloth, parody of oil-kissed onions? Dinner an art, to erase his grim visage The kitchen a riot, with gleeful demands The use of ghee, or vaudeville folding, A dosa dialectical to its maker’s nature. The nexus between the pan and Father Is their covenant alone. Intricacies and obsession find their own beauty, That’s enjoyed with chutney powder and sesame oil.

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

Sergeant Leonell Reporting for Dosa Distribution and Soldier Welfare Duty!

Nanditha Babuji

There’s a door at home By home I mean home Not here I mean I would like this to be ‘home’ But the home is there (way too many homes I know) Well, we have a small door in the kitchen-cum-dining space For most of my life the kitchen was always the ‘homeliest’ part of the ‘home’ What I intend to convey is that It is from the kitchen where love begins to spread And thus, the heart of the house is the kitchen The warmest too Pun intended. But that door was such an oddity It was between the dining set and stove area. Basically, too narrow for a healthy person to pass. It didn’t strike me until years later When we welcomed him home He was tiny Malnourished by the pet house. (Still gets me worked up.) Did a packet of milk really cost that much? Or was it too much ‘work’ for the owner? They didn’t even need them heated. That’s beside the point. 84

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Well, he came. Small, so fragile he might break. Oh boy we really had to stuff him with food for a month. While he turned big and healthy He was also turning very, I might add, very, very, very Intelligent. Eve had bitten the apple Sita had run to the deer And Leo my pup Had gotten the taste of the scrumptious dosa. No, he was on the ‘English’ food regime Of bread, biscuits, rusk, and fruits, With curd rice being the only ‘Indian’ addition. And how big he had become So big, a tad bit overweight Such that he hated the rain. He is a dachshund you see, Long and short. His stomach was, well, a tad bit too big. Rainy days, rainy tummy became his problem. Anyway the day had been normal Leo had had his English breakfast But it was also the day I forfeited against an extra dosa for my plate. My brother, who is a human fridge in himself Didn’t have any nooks empty for the dosa too. “Don’t bother much, try giving it to Leo, if not toss it” Said my mother nonchalantly. Only later did we know 85

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This was the lighting before the thunder. Turns out, Leo really liked the dosa, If I might, I’d add a few more “very”. It was that night, my small and crooked door got its calling It was around 7:30 in the evening The family had gathered and dosa was in its making. We first heard the scratching noise around exactly 5 minutes after our commuting for dinner “Probably a lizard, we have too many of them around” Said my Dad. ‘Probably, huh?’ I thought. But then it came again And again, and again To a point where it became a continuum of scratching. The door was opened for the first time in years To see Leo, his eyes twinkling through the darkness. “Oh, you want one, don’t you?” my mom crooned while giving him one. He ate that. Then another. And another. My mom was done at this point. Even my record-holding-dosa-eating brother had had his share. “Close the door, he’ll understand, I’ll give him milk later” said my dad. Well, boy, wasn’t he a bit thick skinned, maybe a lot thick skinned. He did not get the hint. What started out as a hint, became a full-frontal confrontation 86

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With my mother explaining to him, and I swear this was the conversation; “you see, the dosa batter is empty, I don’t have any!” (imagine the hand movements; circular for dosa, and the empty hand gesture for not having any). He craned his neck into the kitchen. The dosa batter had a distinct smell. And he knew it. Yes, dogs aren’t naturally gifted sniffers. While prodigal sniffer dogs like Leo were serving the army, Leo was serving himself a lot of dosas. It took us over a week to understand that he wasn’t technically just serving himself. He dug up mud, put dosas inside, probably to eat later (he forgets), but in that manner He was serving an army of birds, ants, earthworms, and fishes. Yes, he put a dosa into the fish tanks. Ever since that realization, Our kitchen door is always open; For it was Sergeant Leonell reporting for dosa distribution and soldier welfare duty! Waiting to serve nature with dosa and show it the love for food.

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Habitual Irregularities

Drishti Soni

Almost 5 years ago, my best friend chose me because she was morbidly fascinated with the way I was eating. We happened to sit on the same table in the canteen on the first day of college. All I had was a plate full of noodles, my sluggish eating, and my inability to shut up. I knew I was a fussy eater, but I never thought it would ever be a point of intrigue for someone. She always reminds me how she couldn’t stop watching me slowly pick out the cabbage and choose which noodles to wrap around my fork. I did all this while continuing to narrate an elaborate story. As I still struggled to finish my food, something clicked and she realised I was the kind of weird she wanted to know more about. The rest is history. We all have our quirks, our nakhras when it comes to food. The way we interact with food can be as unique as our fingerprints. And while I don’t believe it’s always a reflection of something deeper, I do believe it’s attached to a very intangible part of our being. In my case, I absolutely love food – the variety, the flavour profiles, the comfort – but it is with the process of eating where I find my mood overpowering it all. A perceived change in my mother’s tone can eradicate my hunger for hours. Mostly however, I’m a slow eater with a small appetite who is often forgetful of the very presence of a plate. And yet, I absolutely love food. A quick peek at my watchlist will show you an array of food documentaries and cooking 88

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competitions. I may be a vegetarian, but I know exactly how to cook every meat and how it pairs with different side dishes. Here’s another curveball: I don’t like cooking. I have scarcely made an effort to learn. Although when I do cook (mostly pasta), I do it well. But spending more than ten minutes in the kitchen starts to agitate me. I guess my parents were hoping that with all the cooking shows I was binge-watching, the excitement would overwhelmingly send me flying towards the stove someday. In a way, it did, because with my knowledge, I am the reigning family taster. Tasting, however, is not enough to sustain. A lot of days, I can barely ingest more than a bite. I often find myself unhappy. It is a struggle sometimes, to get out of bed and force the food down my throat when all I want to do is curl up into myself and vanish into nothingness. To change parts of me that are lodged deep inside, taking up more space than they should, leaving no room – not even for a meal. I’m not sure I can explain it in words. But sometimes I feel like it’s all too much inside me. There’s no outlet. All I can do is cave into myself till I feel so empty I want to stay that way. With such extremes, eating takes a back seat. Now, I’m going to say don’t worry, because I am working on it. And while it may be hard for you to be concerned, I implore you to believe me when I say, I only got into these details to offer context. You wouldn’t understand the absurdity of me completely hogging my face off at a breakfast buffet every time I travel, without this context. That is just how it is. And after that, I continue to eat throughout the day? My family believes it’s 89

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the fact that it’s outside food. But as I grew up, I realised, it’s the outside ‘me’ that creates this hunger. Despite my (lack of) self-esteem, I do believe I’m what one might call a ‘free spirit.’ I thrive on the idea of exploration. I often turn it inwards to help me get rid of all the gunk I’ve been hoarding in the mundanity of a mentally Sisyphian existence. I resonate far better with things that are dynamic, experimental, newer in perspective – the Great Unknown. Mostly because I am a master of projection. The more I explore the unknown in the tangible world, the better I understand the intangible unknown that lies inside me. I might be in my 20s, but I’m still not quite sure who I am. I know foundational values, but the confusion begins from there. It equally excites and terrifies me. This pattern of serpentine contradictions, of optimism and stubbornness, knowing and yet not knowing – all of this seeps into my eating habits. Traveling with my family meant meals at normal times, meals that I effortlessly gobbled down. Things however got a little mixed up when I decided to take a trip alone. I know that an essential part of traveling for many, including myself, is to explore the local cuisine. But for this particular trip, all I wished for was to clear the fog around my head and come out of it liking myself a lot more than before. I wanted to connect with myself. To use every experience and glance inwards. Without planning out the particulars, I only settled on only one thing – that I wouldn’t say no to anything. Food therefore was not on the top of my priority list. I wanted to be spontaneous, get out of my shell, find my own wave, and surf it. And believe me you, I did. It would take me another essay to get into how I made every single day of 90

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that trip memorable. In the oddest, most charming of ways, food made its way into a lot of such experiences. There was the first-time taste of Jaipur as I munched on fries, looking at the sun against the backdrop of the beautiful Hawa Mahal. Asking a day-old acquaintance for a good restaurant led me to attend a wedding with him in search of good food. As luck would have it, untimely rain ruined that for us. I met an old childhood friend after 10 years, and we couldn’t stray too far, so we caught up over a very basic meal at a small local eatery – one I’d probably never order here. I bonded with a foreigner more than a decade older than me because I took her to eat chaat and explained the food to her. By nighttime, I had her converted to a lover of paneer chilli and maggi. I learnt over 4 new card games, which I have already forgotten because I decided to join a diverse group of people for dinner, even though I wasn’t hungry. I sat with my coffee but we stuck around for so long, I caved and ordered pancakes so delectable, that others followed suit despite having just eaten. You best believe that even though we had met just hours ago, we were stealing food off each other’s plates. All this and more, condensed into 5 days. I didn’t even eat as many meals as I should have. My otherwise hog-mindedness was overridden. And yet, I managed to collect so many experiences, so vivid, that I remember every meal I had with them. A lot of chefs, cooks, foodies talk about how food is an art form for the cook, and a medium of togetherness for the people eating it. It becomes a language of love, a way to connect. I find all of that to be very true. It’s such a routine 91

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thing that sometimes, we forget to observe. I only realised this because I chose to be hyperaware, to make note of every little thing that happened on this trip. So I could see the role food played as a social glue. But all those repetitive conversations exclude something important. Despite everything, one of the most powerful moments of that trip was a moment I had alone with food. That moment propelled and fuelled the rest of the trip, allowing me to stick to the ‘don’t say no’ policy. After an eventful first night in the new city, I woke up wanting to seize the day, meet my hostel bunk mates, hike my way up forts. As habit would have it however, I crawled back under my sheets, and lay there doing nothing. Depression, after all, is not something that you can run, or fly away from. I could feel my stomach growling, I could hear my phone buzzing, all my bunkmates were out and about – but I couldn’t move. Over an hour passed this way before the hostel staff barged in to clean the room and startled me out of my bed. By then, it was a little too late to stick to my plans for the day, but I decided to get dressed and put some food in my system so as to not pass out and have my parents ban all future trips. One of the most highly recommended restaurants was close by, so I picked up my book, my camera, and headed there, already disappointed in myself. It was a cool winter morning, and it seemed right to sit on the rooftop, with a little bit of sun and a little bit of wind. I didn’t order much, just a coffee and a chaat. As I ate, my mind began to run, and I was able to figure out 92

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what to do with my day. Now that I was out and about, I didn’t quite want to go back. With every bite, I felt more aware of my presence. I was looking great, I was holding up on my own, I was out there doing something a lot of people are still trying to find the courage to do. Even though I was seated on a huge table alone, I stopped feeling small. I liked the way I occupied the space – my backpack on one side, camera bag on another, my belongings sprawled across the table. I wasn’t very hungry, yet I ate till I was full. For the first time in a very long time, I felt in control of myself. I felt like I could enjoy myself even if things didn’t go as planned. How could I not? I may have been late, but I was still here, I was still enjoying myself. I was sitting out there in the middle of the day, confident, alone, eating something delicious, even though I couldn’t get out of bed a few hours ago. The food was delicious. Had I stuck to my former plan I wouldn’t have gotten to be there on that hazy winter noon, eating, watching the city from the roof, and allowing myself to settle at my own pace instead of chasing another routine. Food isn’t just about the taste and social niceties. It’s so much about what it facilitates within you, what it pulls you to do. How it takes you to amazing places, occupies your attention and how often it makes you feel in charge of yourself – regardless of the mess you might make. It wasn’t something grand I had done, but the moment I shared with myself couldn’t have happened any other way. It was my hunger that took me there.

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

Tarte au chocolat

Angad Maniyambath

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Chocolate Martini

Prithvi Patil

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

Window Shop:1

Francesca Fowler

Candied sugar spins around me like webs, Sunlight glinting off its shards Like amber beads carried by the wind. Their fall softened by a bed Of creamy white marshmallow pillows, Dusted in powdered sugar. My lips part, Wet and coated in the sticky glaze of caramel and chocolate. My eyes wide and dazed… My mother’s hands knock me out of my reverie and suddenly, I am affronted with a whole new barrage of sensations. The smells! The heady aroma of rum truffles dipped and cooled in the corner, the strong burst of coffee being whipped into an ice cream, the freshness of citrus that is delicately dipped in glossy pools of liquid sugar, drying like ice sculptures in the snow. 96

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I hear the trickling of laughter escape my mother’s lips. Like running water over rocks as she scoops me up into her arms to view the magic from up a b o v e. Her curls obscuring my view, I peer through them to see the chaos unwinding before me – The vibrant colours and smells and the tastes, oh the tastes I have yet to taste but have no trouble in imagining.

Dig In: The Langauge of Food

How much garlic is enough garlic?

Aditi Bhattacharjee

O White beauty! Renderer of pungent delights! How I hold you with aplomb, water runs off your petite frame as you almost slip out of my fingers, all veils shed, skin sticks to skin, your body blushes salmon pink. This very act of unclothing— a test of patience, an act of meditation. My whole house fragrant with your presence and of butter simmering on the pan. O medicine to my sore heart on blue days, healer of heartbreak, allayer of homesickness and that occasional unannounced hankering for hot soup on cold nights. Without you bread is bland, cheese is just the dorky brother of butter, and onion, that famous sibling, everyone knows is all skin and heart but no fire. O temptress of senses! O generous magician! Proof that potent things come in pocket-sized packages, how I forget all about proportions and measuring spoons when it comes to you, and yet you give me a good name at the monthly potluck party, elevating the humble daal and naan to a spread fit for a maharajah, how can one ever have enough of you? I feel like a teenager all over again, 98

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on a quest to unearth the novelties of this unusual fixation. I spent hours looking for you, last week at the herbs then, the roots corner, finally stumbling upon you at the vegetable aisle at the local supermarket, as if waiting to be taken home. This lazy afternoon, I watch our desires slow-roast within the perimeter of the skillet, as we embark upon another heady exploration, a familiar aroma hanging heavy in the air, knowing that long after I would have had you, that rare sweetness would still linger on my fingertips.

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Illicium verum

Meera Anand

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The Contributors Abhista Goswami Abhista Goswami is currently studying English Honours at Presidency University. Abhista has a fondness for horror, mystery, and occasionally pretending to act as a side character in stories. Achala Gupta Achala Gupta is an aspiring dentist who took up to poetry writing during the lockdown period and finds poetry to be an effective method to express profound thoughts and emotions. Adithi Arun Adithi Arun is a second year English student at Ethiraj College for Women. She loves learning about different cultures and languages stemming from her love for anime and manga. Some of her favourites include Bleach, Inuyasha and Haikyuu! She is currently obsessed with Jujutsu Kaisen by Gege Akutami. Aditi Bhattacharjee Aditi Bhattacharjee is a sales specialist by profession and a poet by passion. When not in her day job she spends her days reading and gardening. She likes to explore the mundane, the everyday machinations of life through poetry. She lives in Mumbai with her partner, cat and a growing garlic garden. Her work has been featured in The Remington Review, Lunch Ticket, The Alipore Post, Ayaskala Magazine & The Banyan Review. 101

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Aditi Paul Refer to The Teatotallers section. Angad Maniyambath 21, Honorary Bachelor's degree in Marine Sciences (Amity), Master’s in Marine Biology (James Cook University). Arul Kirubakaran Arul Kirubakaran is a Medical student and upstart neoModernist poet and staff writer for the Manipal Digest. While not on Tumblr or reading Austen or parodying Camus, they indulge in Linguistics (knowing 5 languages and counting), Asian history, and analyzing queer theory and metaphysical surrealism in contemporary media. Deepthi Priyanka Refer to The Teatotallers section. Ditsa Mandal Ditsa Mandal is currently studying English Honours at Presidency University, at least when they aren't busy indulging in a variety of other interests. Ditsa is interested in films, particularly the French New Wave films, Gender Studies and Graphic Novels. Drishti Soni Drishti is a 22-year-old writer who often tries to use pen and paper to untangle her thoughts. She has a BA in English Literature and hopes to learn filmmaking. She enjoys traveling and exploring different storytelling mediums.

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Ekasmayi Naresh A Psychology graduate, currently working as a researcher at the IMHO. Fascinated by the power of words to create and dispel confusion. Inveterate lover of stories and poetry. Francesca Fowler Refer to The Teatotallers section. Hansika Jethnani Hansika Jethnani is a poet and visual artist. She writes about themes such as colonialism, migration, shame she learned to carry, shame she is learning to unlearn, her fatness, and her queerness. She likes to think of poetry as a revolution in language. Her work has previously appeared in Mush Stories and Lihaaf Journal. Komal Badve Refer to The Teatotallers section. Laya Satyamoorthy I am a second year Filmmaking student. I love television more than most things, and that's all I'm comfortable with people knowing. Madhukari Guha Postgraduate student, Presidency University. Madhura Kar Refer to The Teatotallers section. Meera Anand Meera Anand is a second year undergraduate student of Economics and Media Studies at Ashoka University. 103

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Mrudula Srivatsa Mrudula Srivatsa loves listening to stories so much that she can only dream that one day someone will love the stories she's telling the world the way she loves the stories she hears. Nanditha Babuji Nandhitha Babuji is an aspiring poet who draws themes from life and often links them to the many happenings of the world. Her style of poetry is often abstract and metaphorical. She has a way with words that helps her shape her stream of consciousness into poetry. Prithvi Patil Prithvi Patil is a final year WGSHA student who is passionate about both cooking and photographing delicious food. Generous at heart and with food, Prithvi fills his plate with as much love as he fills those eating from it. Sakshi Shivprasad Sakshi is a student of Hotel Management and strives to become a baker by profession in the future. She enjoys baking and cooking and capturing the food to share online. Her food page 'flourgrapes' on Instagram is a platform for her to share her aesthetic. Sakshi enjoys the smell of freshly baked bread and desserts and the sound of the camera after taking a satisfying shot. Samara Chandavarkar Refer to The Teatotallers section. Serene George Refer to The Teatotallers section. 104

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Sookthi Kav Sookthi is a History undergraduate student who writes when she must. In her free time, she likes to worry about pending assignments, read books, listen to music, and daydream. She wants to work in Social Science research someday and hopes to lead a happy life. T T is a 21-year-old undergraduate student of English Literature in New Delhi. They love graphic novels, cats and doodling, and wish they could spend all their free time in the mountains. Uma Padmasola Refer to The Teatotallers section.

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The Teatotallers Editors-in-Chief Aditi Paul Aditi is a final year Masters student pursuing her degree in English. She enjoys spending her days either binge-watching absurd shows or at art galleries. She can usually be found ranting, a steaming cup of tea by her side. Francesca Fowler (Interim) Francesca says eccentricity is an understatement when it comes to her – one man’s sanity is another’s insanity. She is passionate, hopeful, and curious.

Fiction Madhura Kar Madhura is a third-year Bachelor’s student in Manipal Centre for Humanities. She is constantly in awe of the magnanimous cosmos, and when it comes to her own little one, she prefers to curl up in the corner of a large library, mostly with green tea and Murakami. Bhanusri Palle Bhanusri is an undergraduate student at the Manipal Centre for Humanities who loves dogs, music and unexpectedly long naps. 106

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Deepthi Priyanka Deepthi is a second-year BA student at the Manipal Centre for Humanities. She is an enthusiast of zodiacs, maps, crayons and caterpillars who is constantly dreaming up names, places, animals and things. Madhumitha Arivu Chelvan Madhumitha is a second year BA student at MCH. She loves pop culture and television, and apologises too much. You’ll probably find her with a brand new interest every week that she simply won’t shut up about. Serene George Serene George is a MA 1st year student at the Manipal Centre for Humanities. She is bad at writing bios. Shreya Jauhari Shreya is unable to find neat categories to present her personality aptly in but resonates most with reading feminist literature, taking theatre courses and writing poetry in Oxford looking notepads. All this while in a bungalow with her two dogs alone. She is currently doing her bachelor’s in liberal arts and hopes to have a life in studying sociology and helping India’s current dysphoria towards activism. Shriya Adhikari Shriya Adhikari is currently a second-year BA student at MCH. She loves sociology, history, K-pop and 90% dark chocolate. Her favourite pastimes include leaving half-read books for already-read books, reading fanfiction and crying over K-dramas. 107

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Sonia Sali Sonia is a freelancer and a masters student. She is a horrible introvert who has her best friend in herself and quite often lost in the blue skies. Well, she is often lost yet a deep thinker. She likes anything deep and out of this world. Quite strange. Sragdharamalini Das Sragdharamalini Das studied Mathematics at the undergraduate level at St. Xavier’s College (Autonomous), Kolkata and is currently pursuing her Masters in English from Manipal Centre for Humanities. Ever-immersed in amateurish philosophising, she divides her time between the realm of algorithmic formulations and the amorphous world of creative meanderings. Uma Padmasola Uma is a final year student of MA English at Manipal Centre for Humanities. She studied liberal arts at Azim Premji University. She writes fiction and fangirls over Barbara Comyns, but only when she has the time, even though that’s all she wants to do.

Nonfiction Ajantha Rao Ajantha is a sarcastic Potterhead, who is perpetually sleepy. Jayaditya Vittal Jay, in MA2. He enjoys reading and editing and is deeply passionate about his tea, his dog, his lorikeet, and his snails. 108

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Jishnu Goswami Jishnu Goswami is a BA student. He is very passionate about international politics, economy and is an absolute Metalhead. Komal Badve Currently pursuing an MA in English, Komal loves cats, coffee, and being left alone. Thank you for coming to her Ted Talk. Manjita Joshi Manjita loves sitting by the beach, being in the breeziest spots, snuggling in bed, reading and thinking of books, and observing birds and clouds. Sarah Hussain Sarah Hussain, a third-year Bachelors student majoring in Literature, is one of the editors for Non-fiction at Chaicopy. A bundle of emotions and simplicity, she loves to read novels that are raw and creative. Sarah also enjoys journaling and penning down poems on longing and love in her past time.

Visual Arts Aparna Manoj Aparna Manoj is a second-year BA student at MCH. She loves making origami, reading, and plants. Lavya Joshi Lavya is a socially awkward human who is a very annoying friend because she randomly zones out mid-conversation thinking about stars, books and weird physics facts. 109

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Nethra Gopalakrishnan Nethra is a first-year student at MCH, loves to draw. She is known to have a dramatic flair and functions on coffee. Oddly weird yet fun, she loves individualism.

Illustration and Graphic Design Jacqueline Williams Jacqueline Williams likes dogs, books, balconies and perforated notebooks. Aparna Manoj Refer to The Teatotallers section: Visual Arts. Madhumitha Arivu Chelvan Refer to The Teatotallers section: Fiction. Nehla Salil Nehla likes cats, weird sea creatures and long-snooted dogs. She draws occasionally and could be usually found seething and/or pining. Samara Chandavarkar Samara is a second-year student at MCH. She's incredibly passionate about dogs, the environment, trashy reality TV, and art that impacts and engages. Udhisha Vijay Udhisha loves travelling, reading and Performing Arts. She won’t talk much and might just pretend you can hear her. 110

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Public Relations Shriya Adhikari (Interim head) Refer to Teatotallers section: Fiction. Aashna Viswanathan Aashna is a second-year MA student pursuing her degree in English. She loves Indian Folk dance and finds writing her own bio insanely difficult. Arpita Reddy Arpita is a second year Bachelxors' student, studying at the Manipal Centre for Humanities. She is an insomniac bibliophile and an expert binge watcher! Eman Siddiq Eman Siddiq is a BA second-year student at MCH. She loves the world of theatre, musical instruments, basketball, books, animals and enjoys learning languages. She is highly addicted to coffee and tea. Sadhvi Hegde Sadhvi Hegde is a BA Humanities student with a penchant for cartography, 5 Seconds of Summer, and embroidery. She enjoys the magic of the Pixie Hollow movies and finds Arab Spring to be her all-time favourite period in history.

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