Square piece of memory

It always began with the sound of rain, soft drizzles kissing the old tiled roof, the smell of damp earth sneaking into Achamma’s kitchen. For her, that was the signal: kalathappam weather. She would smile knowingly, her eyes twinkling behind round spectacles.

I would sit near the hearth watching the dance of firelight on her wrinkled hands. There was something magical about the way she measured ingredients: never with spoons or cups, only with memory. “One handful for love, one for patience,” she’d say with a wink, dropping roasted rice flour into a deep steel pot. Then came the jaggery, melted into a dark, golden river, its sweetness filling every corner of the room.

The sizzling of fried onions, the crunch of tiny coconut bits, the gentle gurgle of bubbling batter, her kitchen became an orchestra, and Achamma stood at its centre; the quiet conductor. She would pour the mixture into the heavy black uruli and lower the flame just enough to whisper warmth.

I sat there, impatient, my tiny heart tested by the smell that wrapped itself around my senses. “Don’t open it yet,” she’d warn. “Kalathappam needs time. Like people, mole… it turns sweet only when it’s given enough warmth.”

Minutes felt like hours, but finally came the grand reveal.

The lid lifted, releasing a cloud of warm steam, like a small piece of heaven escaping. The top gleamed dark and shiny, the edges perfectly crisp, the centre soft like a lullaby. She cut it into neat square pieces, and when she placed one in my hand, her palms were still warm. Holding that piece of kalathappam felt like holding a piece of her love.

No confectionery, no bakery, no written recipe has ever captured that taste again, because Achamma’s kalathappam wasn’t just food. It was memory. It was her laughter, her stories, her patience, all baked into sweetness and shared with love. Even now, whenever rain falls and the kitchen fills with the scent of jaggery, I close my eyes… and I’m back there again. A child, sitting beside the fire, waiting for Achamma’s magic to rise in that black pan.

Athulya E P is an Assistant Professor of Journalism,

and works as a freelance journalist, radio jockey, and voice artist.

The illustration is AI generated.