Teesta Review: A
Journal of Poetry, Volume 4, Number 1. May 2021. ISSN: 2581-7094
Vanishing Point
---
Indrani Perera
starting a conversation
as she went from room to room
my mum was always busy,
bustling around the house
her voice trailing
behind her as she disappeared
talking she went about
her endless day
doing some strange thing
or other
chatting about this and
that
so I always knew
where she was
but never
who
Kama
Kunna Enna (Come and Eat)
for
my dhekayi dhuwa (two daughters)
---
Indrani Perera
My Thaathi, my father, is indy
appa, string hoppers
— little lace doilies made from
rice —
his hair dusted with flour
from making dinner.
My Ammi, my mother, is an Oma, a
grandmother
without her language she wraps
her tongue around vadais;
sinking her teeth
into fried morsels of mung beans.
I am Podi Dhuwa, little daughter,
and watalappan
is my favourite dish. Sweet and
creamy with
a mix of brown coconut sugar
and white coconut milk.
My Nandha, my auntie, is kalu
dodol
cashews, cardamon and palm
treacle
she squeezes my shoulders in
greeting
and speaks to me in Sinhalese.
My Mahappa, my uncle, is arrak
sun-fire that burns your throat
he keeps a comb in his pocket to
slick back
his hair or uses the palm of his
hand.
My Nangi, my little sister, is jaggery
nectar from the coconut flower
she blossoms from behind the
checkout
and I ask her, are you my
cousin?
My Malli, my little brother,
is pol sambal, a spicy
coconut condiment
he says, where is the flavour
if there is no chilli?
All the big girls at the food
fairs and dances
in Australia are my Akkis, big
sisters
we sip faludas through
straws
and run across the wooden floor.
My Aachi, my grandmother, is parippu
lentils served with every meal
she gives me
earrings shaped like flowers with
screw on backs
and when I return home I lose
one.
My Seeya, my grandfather is kiri
bath
creamy rice cut into diamonds celebrate
my parents’ visit in 1979.
The first thing he asks is
where is the hernia belt?
and the second
where am I?, his Minibiriya, his
granddaughter.
When you visit my family
there’s no need to say
mata bada giniyi, I’m hungry.
They give you so much food
that you have to say
atti, atti
— you can’t say it just one
you have to say it twice
enough, enough