Pachada

By Sakhi Dayanand Gundeti

Drops of water trickled down the glass in my hand. Inside, watermelon

chunks floated with strands of scraped coconut. Poppy seeds roamed in

Brownian motion and fennel seeds settled at the bottom as if tired of

swirling. The liquid in my hand, called Pachada, might decide what my new

year would be like.

“Triveni, did you like it?” Amma, my grandma, stooped over my face and

asked me. The ends of her purple silk saree fluttered in the ceiling fan’s

warm wind.

“Huh? I haven’t tried it yet.” I forced a smile and shifted in my chair.

She patted my shoulder and said, “Try it and let me know if you want

more.”

I nodded and went back to staring at the glass. Pachada is supposed to be

sweet, sour, bitter, spicy, pungent — basically a combination of all the

tastes you can imagine. When I was a kid, Mom told me about its myth.

The taste that dominates your palette when you drink Pachada is the way

you spend your new year. I knew it was a myth, but I couldn’t shrug off the

possibility that it might make or ruin my year. My situation was too fragile.

Drink it in one gulp and forget it, I told myself. The sweetness of jaggery,

the sourness of tamarind, and the heat of some ingredient I couldn’t

recognize hit my palette in a rush. At first, I didn’t notice any bitterness, but

once I’d emptied the glass, an aftertaste of something bitter filled my

mouth. I must’ve frowned hard because Amma asked me, “What

happened? You didn’t like it?”

“Ah no! It’s good.” I chuckled, struggling to change my expression.

“She must’ve had it for the first time.” A shaky voice said. A stooped

woman in a white cotton saree grinned at me with dentures that made only

her mouth look young. Sunk on a deep blue sofa across from my chair, she

began playing the do-you-recognise-me? game; I had to identify her though

the last time I met her was in my cradle, not lost in thoughts about getting

into The University or insecure about my classmates.

“Sorry I don’t remember you.” I smiled, hoping she wouldn’t hit me with her

wooden cane that looked as old as her.

After a shaky laugh, she explained her pivotal role during my mother’s

pregnancy, how she’d saved me when my aunt almost slipped me from her

arms and how she’d made a special oil for my skin when I was an infant.

No wonder my skin’s allergic to so many things.

“She has her mother’s sharp nose, doesn’t she, Manda?” Shaky beamed at

Amma who nodded with a smile. Then she said things about me in muffled

Telugu. I understood bits and pieces — ‘darker skin than my mother’, ‘do

something about it, ‘not good for girls’. Amma replied in fast Telugu

assuming I wouldn’t understand, but I caught ‘Mumbai’s hot climate’ and

got it.

Dad had listened to none of my excuses when I said I didn’t want to visit

Amma. “She will feel bad if you don’t meet her. You’ve never been there on

a Gudi Padwa. It will be a nice experience with relatives and festive food,”

he said. Yes, Dad, it couldn’t have been nicer.

Taking in a deep breath, I walked out on the balcony. Amma’s hibiscus

flowers had bloomed and were swinging with the wind. Pigeons sipped

water from a bowl. Somewhere, a cuckoo cawed. I wished I was a bird,

drinking water, eating stuff (what did birds eat?), and soaring high in the

sky. Nice life.

Meanwhile, inside my mouth, the bitter taste lurked with insidious

intentions. It’s things like these that zone me out.

I was seven. The hospital floor reeked of phenyl, so I kept my nose covered

with my t-shirt all the while. Dad, both sets of grandparents, and Mom’s

best friend from college and I waited outside the operation theater, eager

for a baby’s cry. But that never happened. Mom never came back either.

Back then, I thought she loved the baby more than me and decided to go

with her. Everybody already knew something was wrong but they kept it

from me. Uneasiness piled inside me, and I thought I’d burst. I heard my

heart thump inside my tiny chest. When Dad got on his knees and held my

shoulders to tell me what happened, my mind became numb. But it was

better than the uncertainty I faced before.

Childhood devils never leave you.

Jealous of the birds, I walked through a passage to my cousin’s bedroom.

Silky cream curtains covered French windows. Next to them, a wooden

table stood stacked with three books. My cousin, with a frown on her face,

lay on a king-size bed at the center of the bedroom. She scrolled down her

phone in a flowy lehenga five times as ostentatious as my kurti. Don’t ask

me how I got to that number. I have a habit of quantifying everything.

Startled by my ‘hey’, she welcomed me with a smile and shoved her phone

below a pillow.

“We haven’t met in a while. What are you doing these days? You were into

physics, right?” she asked, offering a piece of chocolate I declined.

Chocolates were for happy times.

“Yeah, I’ll be done with my masters in quantum physics soon,” ‘Done with’

— great choice of words. “And I’m planning to go abroad for my PhD. I’ve

applied to some places. Let’s see what happens…”

A rising lump in my throat stopped me from saying anything more. That

day’s tears were on their way. I tell them to come later. Clearing my throat I

said, “You must’ve completed your graduation, right?”

“Yeah…I’m working as an accountant at a steel company. But I want to

settle abroad,” she took one point five seconds to say each word. I wished

people had fast-forward buttons. “So my parents are looking for guys

accordingly.” She picked out the sequins in her lehenga.

“Marriage, wow. Okay.”

She had her life planned out. A house seven times as big as her room with

a pristine blue swimming pool attached to it, a dog of a rare breed she’d

probably buy instead of adopt, a kid one year down the line, another one

two years later, and she’d post the pictures of their perfect family and

house on social media.

What would I be doing then? Nothing comes to mind. Would I be doing my

postdoctoral research in a mediocre university instead of The University

like some of my classmates? Would I love my work?

“Sorry, I spaced out,” I said when I heard my cousin’s voice but didn’t

understand her words.

“I was asking if you’re okay. Your eyes look swollen.”

“Yeah, no. I’m fine. Just a bit stressed out these days. I haven’t gotten a

reply from The University yet and the Pachada was bitter…”

Words poured out of my mouth beyond my control.

“Oh, okay. Do you have any backup plans?”

“I do. The other universities are fine but they’re not as good as The

University.”

“Well, you’ve applied. There’s nothing more you can do. Stressing out won’t

help.”

A mediocre commerce graduate was telling me how to deal with quantum

physics PhD applications. Great.

“And what were you saying about the Pachada?” she asked.

I’d begun drafting a reply when the bed vibrated. My cousin pulled out the

phone beneath her pillow. Her bulgy eyes popped out in mild horror. This

time I asked her, “What happened? Are you okay?”

Faking a smile, she said, “Oh, nothing. Everything is fine. Don’t worry.”

I crossed my arms and stared at her for three seconds. She sighed and

leaned forward.

“Fine. You need to promise you won’t tell anyone.”

“Come on, I’m your cousin. You think I’ll betray you?”

If it was something her parents and Amma needed to know, then as a

responsible member of our clan, I would’ve spilled it out sooner than I

heard it.

“I’ve always wanted to settle abroad. You might know this. And the thing

is,” she lowered her voice, “My boyfriend wants to stay in India forever. I’d

told him about my plans of moving out even before we began dating and

now he wants me to stay back.” By now, she was screaming in a hush. I

wanted to laugh, but I pursed my lips and listened. “I’m torn between two

things now, my lifelong wish of moving abroad and to be with the guy I like.”

“But haven’t you made the choice already? You’re looking for alliances

abroad.”

“My parents are. Not me. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Indecisiveness — a typical sign of dumbness. To help her out, I said, “Well,

it’s fairly simple. One choice is based on your expected future while the

other is based on reality. You think moving abroad will make you happy,

but you’re unwilling to see that someone’s making you happy in the present

already. You’re risking your present for the sake of a future you assume

you’d be happy with. Think about your present. Isn’t everything nice right

now, at this moment?”

She nodded, staring into my eyes when someone called her from the living

room. Carrying the drapes of her lehenga in her hands, my cousin went out

with anklets chiming on her feet.

Replacing her context with mine, the words made sense in my situation,

too. Why did they not strike me before? I can’t do anything about my

admission to The University at this stage, so there’s no point in worrying

about it and there’s no point in ruining my present which is a lot more than

‘fine’. I must not be scared of a liquid threatening my future. It was time to

stop being a seven-year-old wimp.

I jumped out of the bed and ran outside. Next to the temple in the living

room, lay the earthen pot filled with watermelon pieces, strands of scraped

coconut, and poppy seeds in Brownian motion. It was decorated with

marigold garlands, vermillion, turmeric, and mango leaves. Out of a deep

steel spoon, I poured it into a glass. Like a vodka shot, I gulped down the

Pachada; all the flavors rushed by again, but I cared less about the

dominant taste this time.

What if I don’t get selected? What will I do then? Backup universities…I

thumped the glass on the dining table. Everybody turned towards me.

Shaky shook and Amma’s perpetual smile faded.

“Fine. Everything is fine.” I assured them with a wave of my hand.

“Can I have another glass? It’s tasty.” I asked Amma.

“Yes, yes. Just don’t bang it on the table. You almost gave me a heart

attack.”

Smiling, I poured another glass.

By Sakhi Dayanand Gundeti