Paati makes bad thayir
She cooks the most amazing food
My favourite food
But the curd is always impossibly sour
So I like to take sambar twice
Naan cheyattuma?
She asks, when I say I’ll boil the milk
Vendam
I say, take a moment of sharp pleasure
Because I can make one thing better than her
Paati’s face falls
And I regret it immediately
Thathi takes vindictive pleasure in this
So does Amma
In this strange competition of cooks
Because the worth of a savarna woman
Is in her payasam and sadam and sambar and poriyal
I remember my mom saying with glee
How the vadyar asked for milk with the curd at my grandmother’s house
Because it was too sour
Amma won that day
I think about how paati is allowed to serve the vadyar
To bend over her aching back
Pour rasam with shaky hands
Over and over
Whatever he demands
I think of how I was banished because I bled
And I was glad to go
To not see the vadyars
And feel impossible rage
“Pure” enough to have them in our home
But, impure by virtue of my menstruating body
I laugh eating beef fry and washing it down with beer
Pure vegetarian
It is a futile resistance but I enjoy it enough
My partner’s paati swaddles her curd in a special blanket for the winters
“You know” she says, looking at me
“There are certain parts of our culture which matter to me”
I have been evaluated
I have been accepted
I hate myself momentarily for my acceptability
I hate her momentarily for the tradition
I remember her kindness
I swallow thayir sadam down with a smile
I think about how I didn’t know sooru was the same as rice
It was not a word to me
There is caste in the milk which cools on the stove
There is caste in the culture which ferments it
There is caste in my thayir
Yamini Srikanth (goes by Yams), is a trans writer and student of wildlife biology based in Bengaluru. His work lies at the intersection of social justice across lines of identity and environmental issues. He also freelances as an educator and science communicator.