How can the grand food served at weddings be forgotten?

I never got an opportunity to attend weddings in Delhi; it just so happened. Chennai was totally different. Starting with weddings of cousins and other relatives, after I joined a permanent job, weddings became a regular affair. With so many staff members, someone was always getting married. After attending a few weddings, I realized that there was a method and procedure in serving food on banana leaves.

Starting from the right, a plethora of items would be served on the long banana leaf. On the bottom side would be the ‘payasam,’ dal, a sweet, and masala vadai. Then came some mixed rice with specific side dishes like chips—often two varieties of mixed rice—followed by the main course with rice, sambar, rasam, mor kuzhambu, and curd. Even in my younger days, there was no way I could consume everything that was served. In a limited God-given space, you cannot thrust unlimited quantities. The protest would be body-wide.

After I started earning, the value of money seemed to shrink. Everything seemed expensive, and it made me think about managing not just for myself but for the whole family. The elusive preciousness of money suddenly hits you, and you start worrying about wastage. You contemplate deeply with all concentration before touching anything on your plate. One of the naturally following decisions was not to waste food. With advancing age placing unwanted and unexpected restrictions on what you can dump through your mouth, the attention to what is served became intense.

I am careful nowadays. With almost all my age group and the next generation already married, it’s rare to have wedding food. There may be other functions where we can taste similar servings. We now wait for the third generation to grow up and be ready for marriage.

Whenever I have a chance to indulge in extravagant eating, I follow a specific protocol: not to deny anything desired or to accept anything that isn’t. ‘Thayir Pachadi’—one ladle, but usually, only a maximum of one tablespoon is served. ‘Kosmalli’—whatever is served, I accept. ‘Fruit Pachadi’—give me more, please. Vegetable curry depends on what it is. Roasted potato? Maybe more. ‘Aviyal’—no more than half a ladle, please. Pickles—I don’t care. Payasam—there will usually be a little pool on the leaf, barely enough to notice. Mixed rice? One teaspoon, please. Vadai and sweet? Okay. Rice—one ladle, though I may keep some for ‘thayir sadham.’ But I make sure there’s no ready-made ‘thayir sadham.’ With sambar threatening the lower boundaries of the leaf, covering everything on the lower side, I mix and eat in haste. Appalam is my favorite, and I might even dare to ask for more. The servers, seeing the small portions I’ve asked for, usually take pity and give me extra appalams.

Rasam? I never take it at weddings. If anyone can teach me how to mix it with rice without it rushing off the leaf like a broken dam, I’d be forever grateful. This mastery still eludes me. Then, with the remaining rice, it’s time for ‘thayir sadham.’ In between, the servers keep coming at you with huge plates of steaming rice, urging you to take some for ‘rasam’ or ‘mor kuzhambu.’ My hands and face are all over the leaf with a firm shake of the head—no, please. Having filled my tiny tummy with these generous servings, I get up happily, having wasted nothing except the banana leaf.

If that’s not enough, there might be ice cream served or waiting for you temptingly outside. I close my eyes and ignore it, but I never miss the beeda if available.

Satisfied, sated, happy, with my tummy on its best behavior, I relax.

Continued in 113. Metropolitan Melodrama - Part 1