Fingers, Smell, Food
Writing
Sivaranjini V
Whenever I pass a butcher's shop– kari kadai – with racks of mutton hanging down; or a cart-load of bananas, sometimes stuck to their thick stem that is attached to the shopkeeper's roof, a terrible urge to step out of my auto and take a closer look and feel at them envelopes me. Unfortunately, with jumping out of moving vehicles being dangerous, I twist my head as far as I can to chew upon and swallow them with my eyes until they disappear beyond my sight. In the mornings down 2nd Main Road, Malleshwaram, Bharath Mutton Stall is decorated with racks of mutton, hanging down as complete bodies with no part of theirs cut off yet for customers. Roosters roam the stairs leading into the meat shop and I look at the meat, longing to touch and feel it as my auto passes by. There is a certain tautness about its body with pink and crimson legs and a pastiness around the ribs. The whites of the body at various places have an undertone of purple. The urge to feel the meat grows stronger but I cannot ask the shopkeeper if I can merely touch the meat; I must also buy a piece or two to take home. Aversive to cooking– at best I can make a gingery tea– I have no use for purchasing raw meat. Perhaps, I could use it as an object in a still-life study, in an attempt to replicate the delicious colours that make up its frame but no more. The desire to hold the body and feel its tight wetness: feel the ribs and the pasty flesh that covers it; the muscular legs; and pinch the skin to decide on its stickiness, lingers.
Nani would perhaps collapse in horror if she were to learn of such desires that I possess. To her, eating meat was anathema, much like drinking alcohol.
Forget meat, eggs were taboo for a long time at home until hairfall summoned them into my diet. The news was broken to Thatha, Patti and Nani in the spirit of a catastrophe having taken place. Initially, my father resorted to his tactical silent treatment to force me out of this dietary addition.
He complained about the smell and made “tch, tch tch,” noises when he saw me eating eggs, disappointed that I had given into them. He avoided eating breakfast when eggs were being fried on the tawa or laid on the table – steaming hot with their oily smell. Having failed at his game many times over, he now glares at me and my egg-laden hands from behind The Economic Times at the breakfast table.
Everyday before college, a rushed breakfast of unsalted fried eggs with chappathi is downed. Having tried fried eggs with bread for an entire year made me swear off bread and replace it with chappathi. Bread, toasted on the tawa, bears a certain weight and chewiness; almost like a rock the size of a watermelon in my stomach, until an hour before lunch when hunger makes its presence felt. Chappathis, on the other hand, feel light yet filling.
However, chappathis are to be eaten by hand. Parotta, chappathis, naan leave behind an oily film; sambaar, kozhambu and rice remains make space for themselves beneath your finger nails; and the coconuty smell of poriyal, that can never be washed away effectively. No matter the amount of hand-wash used, the smell and residue lingers awhile and everytime I draw my hands to my face to prick a pimple; scratch my cheeks and trace my forehead, the smell follows.
Hence, I roll the fried egg into my chappathi with my thumb and index finger– out of need I sometimes use the middle finger, avoiding it as much as I can, however– and holding the roll with these fingers I chew upon my eggs and chappathi. With minimal usage of hand, I gulp my breakfast down, with my left hand frantically booking an auto ride to college. Lazy to wash my fingers and their oily film, I lick them thoroughly and wipe them on my pants. The oil film clings on.
Concept Note
As I sit in my auto, my eyes flit from meat shops to Nati style food carts to walls plastered with posters, making a mental note of the colours and textures that surround me. Sometimes, I jot down the images I have gathered, moving through Bangalore, hoping to use them some day in my art works. Ultramarine blue walls with faded political posters; grey walls that reveal the brick layer underneath, dappled with moss; roosters with teal and black tails. I like the specificity attributed to colours; when I sit down to paint, I know which bottles to reach for and mix upon my palette to create the desired textures and images. As I write, however, I try to reach for tactile words, to produce a certain sensorial-ness in the objects I describe. Unlike paints that help render textures visually with ease, words are slippery beings; I taste them, running my tongue over their textures; chew on them a bit; smell them; run my hands over them, to draw with words what my eyes see. Stirred by the delicious musculature of mutton and bananas, I try to paint with words their fleshy existence. Sieving through my sentences, I try to depict their colours, taut form and their distinct textures that routinely capture my attention.
Artist Bio
Sivaranjani V is a dancer and painter from Bombay, currently pursuing her MA. English in St Joseph's University, Bengaluru. She works largely in the surrealist style, with interest in mixed media. She enjoys watching and reading about Tamizh cinema. You're very likely to find her listening to podcasts and Tamizh songs as she moves through her day.