#vorn- a sweet dish made by slow cooking pulses/rice in milk and aromatics

[gucciyae]

Palimar

Hard feet against cold earthen floors. The smell of jaggery-sweetened vorn being stirred slowly in a dimly lit kitchen. Crows swoop down to claim the leftovers of last night’s kori-rotti. A cool breeze from the west sets a gentle tempo for the dancing wildgrass. I march forward. 

Opa begins his seemingly endless chant, “Left, left, left-right-left. Left, left, left-right-left.”  Our straightened legs lead the way, arms swinging in unison. Summers at Palimar usually followed the same rhythm.

Located in the Udupi district of Karnataka, visits to my ancestral home have become my favourite summer tradition. As the years went on and the family grew larger, so did the sound of crackling firewood heating our baths for the evening, the pat-pat-pat of marching feet against rough concrete, and the roaring laughter of my cousins running through the hallways.

Our visits begin early in the morning, bellies filled with a helping of dosa and chai, we make our way onboard an express bus. If we get lucky, all three of us cousins would sit in the same row. Alas, the Sunday crowd warrants a narrow seat by the bus driver, one that my cousin sister–  Anushka and I squeeze ourselves into.

Each stop is marked by the bus conductor's shouted reminders, followed by an organized chaos of travellers moving in and out of the metal box on wheels. After all these years, Anushka, Aarav and I have learned to sleep through the blaring bus horns, which explains our shock and excitement upon reaching the Padubidri bus stand so soon.

It doesn't take too long for Oma to hail an auto rickshaw, directing the driver with such practiced ease, she rivals a modern day GPS. To an ordinary traveller, the entirety of Palimar might seem to be composed of the same visual elements; local shrubbery, roads that twist and turn into infinity, and the occasional clay house. However, to those of us who pay attention to her little details, the ancestral house leads us onward by the sweet smell of young coconut growing on trees, and the sound of the crashing waves of her backwaters.

The auto rickshaw stops a few paces away from a one story house, cracked maroon and blue paint coats the clay walls, unruly weeds run wild throughout her front yard, and the concrete pavement has turned algal. By the time my grandparents moved away, we were left with no farm animals to herd. However, this does not stop Anushka from her annual attempts to domesticate the stray dogs of Palimar.

We continue towards the house, our bodies coated in a thin layer of sweat from the summer heat, and set down our plastic bags filled with water bottles and steel tumblers. 

“Mom, did you carry a bottle of Thums Up?” Aarav drones, dragging out each syllable in a childish lilt. Before his mother has a chance to answer, Oma returns to the verandah holding young coconuts, ushering us to pick some more from the base of the surrounding coconut trees. And so begins a competition of speed, strength, and differentiation among me and my cousins.

Covered in sticks, mud, and the occasional beetle, the three of us scurry back to the concrete pavement, careful not to drop our hard-earned treasures. 

Now, here comes my favourite part of the summer tradition, hacking open of the coconuts. Opa walks out to the verandah bearing a koiti, and reaches for the pile of coconuts laid on the ground. We all hold our breaths as Opa makes the first strike, exhaling as a thick piece of husk is chopped off. I've always been in awe of his precision, lean hands grip the coconut with the same firmness as his voice. The steel tumblers that were packed in plastic bags are now being passed around, and my father pours out the translucent fluid into each vessel.

As a kid, I found the lactonic notes from young coconut water quite repulsive. I cannot tell you when it was exactly, but as our visits to Palimar grew less frequent, my longing for the cold and nourishing elixir grew fonder. A stroll along Padubidri beach takes me back to my summers of the 2010s, though, my memories have started to blur together— dark smoke flowing out of the chimney before our evening baths, the chicken coop and the incessant clucking of its residents, my plastic swing attached to the bedroom door frame, and Aunty Kalyani along with her cow– which she milked every evening during her visits.

Twilight draws in, a symphony of riverside cicadas makes itself known to us, and the husks of tender coconut have piled up to my height. A heaviness sets into our limbs as we move to pack away the used tumblers, and the air carries the aroma of coconut oil used to prepare the neighbour’s supper. Reluctantly, Opa makes his way down from the verandah, leading us back to the bus stand. All is quiet, for everyone is musing the very same idea– another afternoon at the Palimar house.

I wait another year.

#first post on here! hope you all like :D #this piece is dedicated to my Opa- my late grandfather who passed earlier this year #i miss him a lot and i hope he likes this :) #writerscommunity #writing #writeblr #writerscorner #writers on tumblr #some translations for readers! #oma- german for grandma #opa- german for grandpa #vorn- a sweet dish made by slow cooking pulses/rice in milk and aromatics #kori-rotti: red-chili and coconut milk based chicken curry and crisp wafers made from rice batter #koiti: billhook machete used by farmers to cut crop