Johnson was scrubbing the paint off his hands with a rough stone. A stone he had carefully picked up from a small natural stream flowing through the coffee estate and draining into the gully that took the water to the coffee plants downstream. His hands were getting cleaned this afternoon to consume the lunch that Nancy had packed for him that morning. It was one of his favourites, the Kaveri Kotta meenu saaru with steamed rice.
Kaveri Kotta is the local variety of catfish found in the Kodagu district. As he scrubbed his hands with the combination of a blue fabric detergent bar and the abrasion of the rock from the stream, his memory of the taste, texture and fragrance of the fish curry captivated his imagination, increasing the excitement in anticipation of the real act of eating.
The stainless steel tiffin box with two compartments was inside a white plastic bag from Metro Garments. This is where Nancy and Johnson had bought clothes for Jessy for her ninth birthday. As he looked at the plastic bag hanging on the hook of his green TVS moped, he was suddenly reminded of how time flies. It is April already, and in May Jessy turns ten. She had been wanting to go to Mangalore for her birthday shopping this year, and Nancy wants to visit her sister too.

This reminds him of a loan of five thousand rupees he had lent to Shafiq, who was standing next to him washing his hands. Johnson looked at him struggling with the tough paint stain on his palm and lent him the rock he was using to scrub. Shafiq compliments him for having this unusual ability to pick the best stone for scrubbing.

In response, Johnson stares at him for a moment. Johnson ignores the compliment and asks Shafiq about his plans for returning the loan of five thousand rupees he took from him, quoting his plans about their family’s trip to Mangalore for Jessy’s tenth birthday.
Shafiq starts his response with “Baby Anna,” and Johnson’s face immediately drops to an expression that knows exactly what Shafiq’s response is going to be. In the village they come from, everyone called him Baby, as he grew up around the time Johnson’s Baby powder had reached his village. He knows what card they are playing when people call a forty-year-old Johnson a “Baby.”

As expected, Shafiq told him that he would only be able to repay half of the money he borrowed at the end of the month. While this was not as disappointing a piece of news, Baby also wondered if this was Shafiq’s false promise and the half disappointment was threatening to become a full one.

At this point, the sight of the tiffin box hanging on the moped came in like a superhero to the rescue. The mood suddenly shifted, and the focus was back on the white plastic bag and its contents as he marched towards it.

Baby’s mind is recreating the experience of the Kotta meenu saaru he had eaten the last time, sitting in his backyard overlooking a small orchard carefully landscaped by Nancy. There were two prominent datura plants with divine light pink, trumpet-like flowers, almost half a foot each, drooping down and looking at Baby’s plate, not with envy but in celebration.
There was a guava tree whose guavas were equally shared between Nancy, Jessy and a small flock of Vernal Hanging Parrots. There were a few coffee plants, three varieties of roses, and a large Silver Oak tree towards the boundary of the backyard.
It was a small one-bedroom house with a big enough front yard to place a couple of plastic chairs when there were guests. Baby’s favourite lunch spot on leisurely holidays is the step that opens into the backyard from the kitchen.

The last time, this meen saaru was enjoyed on the step along with Nancy, with Jessy playing by herself in the backyard and the chatter of the Vernal Hanging Parrots feasting on the guava. A communal feast with the Datura as witnesses.

A local person’s taste buds could read the base of the curry in great detail. A mild spicy sweetness of coconut and a paste of dry-roasted coriander seeds, cumin seeds, black peppercorns from the backyard, fenugreek seeds and ginger. A local nose could also detect the clove, garlic and some curry leaves in the mix.
This curry, with the consistency of a diluted porridge, mixed with a five-finger portion of steamed rice squeezed into a ball, with a plucking of the portion behind the gills of the fish, had made a grand entry into Baby’s mouth around three weeks back.

As he is a few steps away, he starts to feel if the experience of eating that curry with Nancy was so blissful because of the company, context and the setting. He begins to compare that with his current setting.
A Shafique who emits the fragrance of teeth ground betel nut, tobacco leaves and lime from a distance of five feet. A home being transformed into a homestay by the son of Mr. Timmanna, in whose house Shafique’s father, Naser, worked as a driver till he retired at the age of sixty-two.
A two-hundred-year-old stone bench overlooking the estate and a two litre Fanta bottle being reused as a water bottle for three years. While the water inside is clean, it still looks like it is mixed with whiskey.

As Baby’s hand reaches out to the bag, he realises that this comparison of two gastronomical settings would threaten the thorough savouring of the upcoming meal. His mind quickly switches to seeing the beauty of this context.

This painting job is his first job as a chief painter. Until this project, both Shafique and Baby worked with Soorappa as his assistant painters. Johnson was four years senior to Shafique in this field.
This was a job that got materialised through Shafique’s father and his close association with the owner, Mr. Timmanna. The money it was offering was substantial, and it is great for both of them to make this leap in their profession.

What better way to celebrate this moment than a meal of Kotta Meen Saaru made by Nancy, with a strict adherence to her mother Mariamma’s recipe.
By this time, Baby’s hands are touching the lukewarm stainless steel tiffin carrier. He makes his way to the bench with Shafique and sits down as he notices Shafique is empty-handed.
As he looks at him, Shafique says that all the people at his house had gone to prepare for the wedding of a close relative in Suntikoppa, and he couldn’t manage to pack lunch for himself.

Baby places the lid of his tiffin carrier on the lap of Shafique and serves him half a portion of his rice and fish curry as the grey hornbill couple hop around the 200-year-old trees that co-inhabit the coffee plants, looking at another story of simple, organic, colourful, quiet and unannounced resilience unfold in their presence.

Someone shared their meal
With their friend
With the old trees and the hornbills as witness
When two people ate,
Many hungers were satiated

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