Writers Jam

Achan(Dad, in Malayalam) had an obsession with sweets. The house always had at least one of his favourites: laddoo, kaju katli. But nothing could beat his love for payasam(kheer)

He made it not just on special occasions like our pirannal (birthdays), but even on quiet, ordinary days. Maybe to fill a void he never talked about. Maybe just to satisfy a craving that had nothing to do with hunger.

Semiya payasam was his go-to. Thin strands of golden vermicelli, lightly roasted in nei(ghee, clarified butter) until fragrant, swirled through simmering milk that slowly thickened. Sarkara(sugar) melted into it, making the mixture rich and comforting. He would add cashews, fried until golden, and plump raisins that softened in the heat. Sometimes, a touch of elakka (cardamom) would rise through it all, subtle and warm.

It was creamy and full, sweet enough to quiet everything else for a moment.

Whenever I was in the kitchen, I was given the job of stirring the big pot, watching closely so the milk wouldn’t boil over.

The scent would fill every corner of the house : sweet, nutty, soft and linger long after the flame was out.

I was never quite fond of it though. He always made it too sweet for my liking, the kind that coated your mouth and stayed.

I would drink a single cup out of habit, then leave the rest untouched.

Too much sugar. Too many raisins.

Today, Achan is not here. And with him, something about the taste of semiya payasam has faded.

But whenever someone offers it to me…whether at a sadya (feast) or a family gathering…I never say no.

It is still too sweet for my buds. Still thick. Still full of raisins. But I drink every last drop, letting the warmth fill more than just my stomach.

The payasam that once tasted like too much love, now feels like never enough. And beneath the sweetness, there is something else.. a quiet regret that I didn’t ask for seconds.