The kitchen poetry of 5th A Cross

Author Ranjini Rao recollects a walk down a neighbourhood filled with memories

January 17, 2018 04:05 pm | Updated 04:05 pm IST

The dust rose like billowing clouds as the cab pulled up around the corner of 5th A Cross. The coral jasmine tree stood at the cul de sac, like a talisman, protecting the pale façades of the houses around it. The gate opened with that familiar creaking sound, letting me into the folds of many yesterdays. The porch garden with its vibrant flowering plants growing out of broken-rimmed pots on Cuddappah shelves, and green vines clambering on textured walls, threw open memories of past footfalls. Of times when I’d dart across it, hiding a stash of junk food in my skirt, right on to the safety of the street, where my friends would be waiting; or when I’d dash past it in a hurry to get somewhere, without stopping to inhale the scent of the blooming mallige, or observing the curly petals of peachy roses as they broke from bud to flower.

I turned around to take stock of the neighbouring houses and the affairs of their inhabitants, on 5th A Cross — the Reddys’ building had had a green-and-blue makeover; the Haridas family was evidently on vacation, as evidenced by the cobwebs on the copper-tinted porch lamp; the Kadiyalas’ old-fashioned front gate had been replaced by a stylish one with spiral designs in the central framework, resembling whisks; the open expanse of Colonel V’s oversized balcony was swathed by fishing nets; the Menons had gotten a new compound wall with yellow and brown diamonds jutting out of cream squares; and the only house that remained untouched by the grip of modernity was the Sethuraos’ — it stood in the corner, with its unapologetic grey windows and brick-coloured walls, welcoming old ghosts and new visitors, as it were, to 5th A Cross.

A whiff of fried onions came wafting in, likely from the Colonel’s kitchen — no stranger to biryanis, which was quickly trumped by the overbearing smell of burnt milk, emanating from my mother’s house, where the tenant was ostensibly up to no good in the kitchen. The lemons in the Reddys’ garden hung invitingly, and they took me back to those lazy summer afternoons where we would squander them away in pitchers of lemonade — not knowing any better about their usefulness in the worthier tarts or tequilas. The absence of that familiar fried-fish odour from the Haridas’ was made up for in large amounts by the pungency of mutton curry from the Kadiyala tenants. I could nearly picture the Sethurao family clamping their nostrils with wooden clothes pegs. The sound of something — probably elaichi — being pounded in a mortar and pestle was within earshot, beckoning me inside my mother’s house. Sure enough, I heard a voice calling out to me, “Come, have some kheer...” and I obliged. The burnt milk, or at least some of it, had been salvaged, perhaps. I took a taste of it and then some more, refusing to acknowledge then, but willing to admit now, that it takes an overused kitchen to produce the choicest of delicacies, even if the turn of cooks and hands change from time to time.

I was back on 5th A Cross shortly afterwards, with a cloth bag on my shoulders, bearing precious paraphernalia I’d picked up from the street’s earth, its gardens, and its residents. Some rose plant stems and methi from my mother’s garden — no longer tended by her but just as bountiful as it was — some pebbles from around the coral jasmine tree for my child’s rock collection, lemons from the Reddys’ garden, mint from the Kadiyalas’, tulsi saplings from the Sethuraos’, exotic spice sachets from the Colonel’s travels, and a shard of coloured glass from the gutter by the Haridas’ for no reason. It is on 5th A Cross that I learnt how to cook and experiment with a variety of cuisines, and in the contents of that bag was a recipe for something bigger and better than the memories they brought back to me.

Ranjini is a mom, writer, teacher, and head-hasher. She blogs at Tadka Pasta with her partner, with whom she has also produced three delectable books of stories and recipes.

Their latest is Book Worms & Jelly Bellies.

0 / 0
Sign in to unlock member-only benefits!
  • Access 10 free stories every month
  • Save stories to read later
  • Access to comment on every story
  • Sign-up/manage your newsletter subscriptions with a single click
  • Get notified by email for early access to discounts & offers on our products
Sign in

Comments

Comments have to be in English, and in full sentences. They cannot be abusive or personal. Please abide by our community guidelines for posting your comments.

We have migrated to a new commenting platform. If you are already a registered user of The Hindu and logged in, you may continue to engage with our articles. If you do not have an account please register and login to post comments. Users can access their older comments by logging into their accounts on Vuukle.