Recently, a fifth grader blew my mind about her knowledge of the origin of rice. When I asked her where rice came from, she swiftly responded, “From the departmental store.”
Unlike today’s children, who are deprived of the opportunity to establish a bond with this grain they eat in one form or another every day, growing up in the 1970s, we were first-hand witnesses to the wonderful journey of rice, from the fields to our cooking pots. We had an emotional connection with rice right from the moment it reached our front yards as paddy sheaves laden in bullock carts.
We played and slept on harvested paddy stalks, unmindful of the grains tickling our backs. Watching men and women engaged in separating paddy grains from the straw by beating the sheaves on stones and winnowing out the chaff with big palm leaf trays, locally called murams, in dim light at night was a scene to be reckoned with. In the morning, the front yard would bloom with mounds of golden grains emanating a nutty aroma, awaiting storage in grain bins.
Our relationship with rice went beyond the dining table; it was a journey from paddy to plate. The transformation was a meticulous process, with each step holding significance. On most weekends during my school days, I was engaged in the process of parboiling, helping my mother. As the grains boiled in a huge brass pot, a sweet aroma, would pervade the surroundings. Mother knew when the parboiling was complete, with the change in colour of the husk and its transparency.
Guarding the parboiled grains drying in the sun against crows by sitting under a neem tree with a heap of pebbles was an experience in itself. During rainy days, the entire mud-tiled floor of the house would be carpeted with a layer of the drying grains. We practised writing Tamil and English alphabets on paddy grains. Walking barefoot on the grains offered a stimulating and sensory feeling.
Once the drying was complete, it was time for the grains to go to the rice mill in colourful palm leaf baskets. Paddy grains would go through a gruelling adventure at the rice mill, which was powered by a long belt, as the miller emptied the contents of the baskets into the hopper. Within a few minutes, the deafening machine would separate bran-coated rice and husk from the grains. The fresh scent of the warm rice just out of the machine would be highly tempting. With our mouths full of rice tinged with bran, we would walk home carrying the rice and husk in different baskets. Storing rice in traditional palm leaf baskets or earthen pots ensured that its natural quality lasted for a long time.
Today, with paddy fields giving way to urban sprawl and rice mills vanishing from our neighbourhoods, rice has become a mere commodity only to be found in stores, often in sealed packs, leaving the new generation clueless about its rich heritage. The naked rice kernel, bereft of its bran coating, bears a peculiar disposition, both in appearance and taste, leaving us yearning for the olden days.
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