The taste of Roti
The taste of Roti
Salt, Fire and Memory
We’ll do it,” said Kadayamma, her voice low but certain, like the breeze that stirred the guava leaves outside. “Come, I’ll show you.”
She led the way into the kitchen, her bare feet making soft sounds against the red cement floor. The boy followed, small and quiet, like a shadow stitched to her presence.
The kitchen smelt of old woodsmoke and cumin. Sunlight slipped in through the slats of the window and fell across jars of lentils and dried red chillies. Everything here seemed to belong to another time – battered clay pots, rusted ladles, a coal-black kettle that had whistled through many school holidays.
From one of the earthen jars tucked into a corner, Kadayamma scooped a fistful of flour and placed it carefully in a mixing pot. Then she picked up a coconut, brown and fibrous, tapping it with her knuckles like one tests for ripeness in mangoes.
Crack!
It split cleanly under the firm crack of her heavy kitchen knife, as though the coconut had been waiting patiently all morning to reveal its secret. A clear stream of water gushed from within, spilling into the jug she had ready by her side. She poured a little into a steel cup and handed it to the boy.
He cupped it carefully in both hands and drank in one long, eager gulp – eyes closing briefly as the cool sweetness touched his tongue and slipped down his throat.
From beneath the old wooden bench, she drew out the Hiramanaya – a coconut scraper with its iron teeth and squat wooden seat. It was a humble contraption, but there was something noble in its design, something honest. Kadayamma sat on it with the grace of someone who had done this all her life.
She bent forward slightly, holding one half of the coconut with one hand, scraping it with a slow, patient rhythm. The white strands fell like first snow into the waiting bowl.
“Sit like this when you grate,” she said, without looking up. “Back straight. Fold your legs. Don’t rush. You’ll hurt yourself.”
The boy, wide-eyed, nodded solemnly, though his thoughts were lost in the soft curls of coconut that gathered like treasure.
Outside, the cotton tree whispered in the warm July wind. Inside, the only sounds were the rasp of iron against shell, and the quiet wisdom of old hands at work.
Then came the mixing. She tipped the coconut into the flour and reached for a little ceramic container near the stove. She pinched some salt between thumb and finger – never measured, just known – and sprinkled it in with care. After that, she poured a spoonful of salty water from a glass tumbler kept by the hearth.
“Salt is a quiet thing,” she said softly. “Too little and it’s lifeless, too much and it bites your tongue. So feel it, not just with your hands – but here.” She tapped her heart, then stirred the mixture with her fingers, slowly folding it all in.
The mixture clung to her hands, glistening slightly.
“Not too much water,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Just a little. Taste, then mix more. The roti should hold – never drown it.”
The boy looked on, taking silent notes in his head. “Add a bit of salt water, not too much… just a little,” he whispered under his breath, committing it to memory as if it were a lesson in arithmetic.
Kadayamma placed a flat iron thachchiya on the old woodfire, set between three half-bricks blackened by years of meals and monsoons. She added a few dry twigs, coaxing the flame to rise with a practiced puff of breath. Then, stepping out into the sunlit backyard, she returned with a fresh banana leaf – green and glossy like lacquer.
Back in the kitchen, she tore a neat square from it, placed a ball of dough in the centre, and pressed it gently into a round, flat shape. Then, she slid the banana leaf onto the hot plate and blew gently into the fire. The flames obliged.
Soon, a warm, toasty smell began to fill the kitchen – the kind of smell that makes your stomach answer before your mouth does.
“When you smell that,” she said, “turn it over.”
The boy leaned in as she flipped the roti, the banana leaf now curling slightly at the edges. The fire crackled. A fly hovered nearby, as though drawn by the scent of coconut, salt, and something more ancient than both – hunger remembered.
Three minutes passed. Then Kadayamma showed him how to lift the roti – carefully, leaf and all – from the hot plate.
“Don’t touch the metal,” she warned. “It bites.”
She took an old enamelled plate from the shelf – chipped at the rim, still proud – and placed the golden roti upon it.
“Putha,” she said, handing it to him with a smile that crinkled her whole face, “Eat. And tell me if your stomach smiles.”
The boy held the plate carefully, the warmth of the roti reaching his fingers. He broke off a piece and brought it to his mouth. It was still steaming, the edges crisp where the banana leaf had kissed the fire. The taste of coconut and salt filled his mouth – the kind of salt that didn’t sting but softened, made everything else taste fuller. His stomach did smile, though he didn’t know quite how to say it.
He looked up at her and said, simply, “It’s nice.”
Kadayamma nodded, satisfied. “You’ll remember how to make it one day,” she said. “When you’re far away, and the smell of coconut brings you back here.”
At the time, he didn’t understand what she meant.
But many years later, in a pristine kitchen in another country, where coconut came in frozen packets and salt had no memory, he found himself standing before a gas stove, pressing dough into shape with unsure fingers. He had written the steps on a yellowing scrap of paper – flour, coconut, a pinch of salt, a bit of salt water – but it was her voice that guided him more than any list.
Outside, it was winter. But in that kitchen, for a few quiet minutes, the air was thick with July wind, banana leaves, and the music of a fire coaxed to life with a single breath.
He took a bite. It wasn’t perfect. The coconut was colder, the flame too tame. But still, he smiled. Because some recipes weren’t meant just for the mouth. They were made for the heart. For remembering.
And somewhere, he imagined, Kadayamma was nodding.
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