It was a bright, hot day in August. The sun was shining, the birds were singing and our fathers were outside- cursing violently at the cherry tree. I was sitting at my family’s dining table with Jack, my friend and neighbour, the two of us conversing with the blistering wisdom unique to nine year olds.
We were long since exhausted from ‘helping’ with the trimming efforts- carrying lemonade and cookies outside, tripping over loose tools and moving ladders to more convenient places (much to our fathers’ chagrin). My mother had elected to move us inside, likely eager to avoid the ugly aftermath of a middle aged man stepping backwards onto a ladder that was no longer there and was bustling around the tiny kitchen, making one of her famous lunches. Peanut and tamarind rice with a variety of trimmings- a dish that had become so famous in our neighbourhood that about five different households were claiming it as a ‘secret family recipe.’ The smell of the spices filled the kitchen and soon enough my conversation with Jack came to a halt as both of us leaned far back in our chairs, noses turned upwards to try and snatch the taste out of the air.
“Set the table.” As if I had to be asked. The two of us dashed around the kitchen, almost knocking my mother over now as we grabbed the plates and spoons, the glasses and juice, the toppings and trimmings and sides that would accompany the delicious, steaming dish of rice that was soon set down in front of us. Pulihara- a delicacy in India’s South. Steamed basamati rice and roasted peanuts tossed in a coating of tamarind, sesame and refined sugarcane juice. Sweet, spicy and sour all at once.
Is your mouth watering? I know mine is. But my mother’s famous rice isn’t the focus of this story. No, the focus is the box sitting next to it. A plastic ziploc box, stuffed in a plastic ziploc bag, then put into a larger plastic box. Triple bagged for your protection in a way that would make a Hazmat team proud.
By the time I got back to the table Jack was holding the box out to me, an expression of polite curiosity on his face. That curiosity was only heightened, I’m sure, by the look of immense panic that passed over mine.
“Jack, put that down.”
“But what is it?” He started to pry the lid open and I let out a little yelp, quickly grabbing the box from him and sealing it again. “Oh come on, Lasya. What are you so afraid of?”
“These…” My voice quavered slightly, “These are my father’s.”
My father. My brilliant, ridiculous father who’d grown up in one of the hottest towns in India. My father, who regularly took part in red chili eating competitions with his friends. My father, who always asked restaurants to ‘make it hotter’ and was known to eat dollops of wasabi like it was whipped cream. My father, who in order to add ‘flavour’ to my mother’s famous cooking had taken it upon himself to acquire a special snack. Red chilies, dipped in yogurt, sundried and fried. So hot that the scoville scale broke under their weight and merely opening the box they were housed in could set a grown man’s eyes watering.
And standing in front of me was a boy. Only nine. So innocent, so pure. I watched, tears in my eyes, as he opened the box again.
“They’re just chilis.”He looked up at me, that innocence blazing bright in brown eyes. “I thought Indians could handle heat.”
“Jack…” My voice was hoarse, I was almost ready to drop to my knees and beg. “Don’t do it. Please.”
“Oh come on, Lasya. How bad can it be?”
“NO!” But it was too late. I watched, eyes wide, knees shaking, as he pulled a single chili out of the box and brought it to his mouth. The adults were outside, my mother was busy, and all I could do was stand there and watch as my dear friend faced his maker.
He took a bite of the chili. For a moment, all was silent. There were no birds, no cars, no buzzing from the bees. Not even the sound of grown men fighting a tree dared to split the silence.
Then… Opera.
I watched, wide eyed, as my friend launched into a near perfect aria- the agony and regret mingling perfectly as he began to move.
My poor mother turned around just in time to see a nine year old boy launch himself across her dining room table, clawing for the jug of water like a man on fire. Which I suppose he was… technically. On the inside.
His face was as red as the roses in the garden, the tears cutting tracks down his face. I poured him water with shaking hands, unable to deafen myself to his screams.
“It’ll all be over soon,” I whispered quietly, passing him the glass, “just hold on. Just… hold… on.”
But it wasn’t over. It wasn’t ending. He continued to writhe in pain, waving his hands in front of his mouth and jumping on the spot as though to appease some distant, uncaring god. My mother was rubbing his back, pouring him milk, whispering prayers on his behalf. There was a single moment when his screams stopped and I saw the relief steal over his face. A single, damned moment before the fear overtook him, before his eyes screwed up in panic.
“I think a seed’s stuck!”
And so it began again. Screams and tears and regret. Promises that would never be kept to gods that were probably more entertained than pitying. At one point I gave up and started eating my lunch, watching the entire display with the exhausted acceptance of a war-weary populace. The tamarind rice was particularly good that day.
This too shall pass. The whispered prayer of humanity. Thankfully that saying held true that day, and fifteen painful minutes later Jack’s screams subsided to whimpers. He collapsed into the seat across from me, eating his rice with the sullen defeat of a man who has seen the abyss. And me being me, all I could bring myself to say was, “I told you so.”
Jack still lives next door to us. We’re both twenty now. And to this day whenever I bring over my mother’s food he stops for a moment before opening the container, looking at me with the haunted eyes of a veteran, and whispers the hard-fought, hard-learned words. “Is it spicy?”
Tapestry of Tales 