Tamul

My dad is the only one in our family of four who knows how to cut and peel a betelnut. A betelnut is called tamul in Assamese. My mother does not know how to peel one, and neither do I, and it is something i have struggled with all my life - because either the tamul is too tough or too soggy, or too husky, or I can't seem to cut it into four equal parts. 

 But my father peels it, cleans it, cuts it and presents it with such dexterity and grace, even when he is so sick he can not seem to get out of bed, give him a tamul and he starts working on it. He has been blessed with this rare ambidexterity (ability to use both hands), and often uses his left hand to carry out these intricate tasks, like screwing a nail or cutting the tamul. A sturdy, unripe shell is easier to crack and peel, while the dried up ones are husky and difficult, and I always wonder how he peels the dried ones so effortlessly. Removing the tough nut, he cracks it with the kotari banging on the marble slab in the kitchen, and then cuts it into two, then four parts. Then takes some paan and delicately presents them in the bota. The rusted, ages-old bota, which had lost its original golden shine and has patches of brown and green stain in it, becomes beautiful again by fulfilling its purpose exactly the way it was meant to be. 

I love Tamul, my dad not so much. We have had a very troubled relationship over the years, and I can not really delve deep into it, but I have seen a very dystopic family, right from my childhood. At times when I have had enough and just want to cut him off, mum always reminds me that inspite of everything he has always been present as a father. The bar is THAT low, honestly. And no he has not, but that is not the point of the question. 

Moving on, that I love tamul inspite of all its adverse effects of being a carcinogen and etcetera is well known. Today, as I was on my way to the bathroom I saw his figure in the usual corner of the kitchen, all his attention focused on peeling one. My greedy self abandoned the plans of taking a bath and started hovering around trying to look busy but not really wanting to ask him for a piece. He sensed what I was there for, and asked if I wanted a piece. I said yes. He saw the towel over my shoulder and asked if I was going to the bathroom, I said yes. He gave an amused smile at the inability of a 23 year old to control her greed and lightly admonished me for taking food into the bathroom, then wrapped a piece in half a slice of paan and handed it over to me.

You might ask, why am I boring you with the most mundane of things? The honest answer is, I don’t really know. But the tamul incident today took me on a memory-ride, making me realise how significant the betelnut was for our relationship. It has been a point of contact between us for years. He knows how much I love it, and there is always a small piece kept in an usual place in the kitchen most times when he peels one. I say most because I have to plead and pester a lot of times as well. Even during the days when we would not be talking, there were times when I would spot a small piece in the kitchen. Of course there is no way of knowing if it has been intentionally kept or not, but I would like to believe so. Even when we are out and he buys himself a paan, he frequently buys one for me as well. 

Everyone says I resemble my dad too much. I have always hated this statement, for obvious reasons. It has made me visibly angry a number of times. Yet, as I have grown up, i have realised that most of the traits I have inherited from him and not my mother. (Which does agitate me but what can a girl do to escape daddy issues around here?) I have definitely inherited his anger and his ego, that I can say for certain. 

A very horrifying realization dawned on me the other day, I was in the metro having a fight with the boyfriend, and I realised that I had been trying so hard not to become my mom, that I became my dad instead. Very obviously, I cried all the way. 

But, as the years have passed and owing to my multiple rebellions, he has become less of an abusive authority figure and more of a person one can have conversations with, I have started to see him as more as a human. An imperfect one, someone with a lot of history with various things, abusive behaviour and anger issues, and absolutely no therapy, but I see him as a human nevertheless. And when you start seeing someone as a human and not as a parent or anything such, you start appreciating the minute things they do, their technique of cutting up a tamul, for example. Or the way they can use both hands but their handwriting, though very aesthetically pleasing, can never be understood by anyone other than us. My hatred of several years have now been replaced with a strange sense of sympathy, and traces of understanding. And that is a massive shift of perspective, something which I had never anticipated happening. But it did, and I am relieved to say the least. It is easier to have sympathy for someone rather than carrying the bitter seed of anger, hatred and resentment.