I typed the word and stopped. Kaali. Two syllables, said by a grandmother to a 12-year-old, in a book meant for readers who are ten. The cursor blinked after the i. Outside, the school bus trundled past our home. I was relieved to get away from my manuscript to make coffee for the kids. Excavating memories is never fun.
Kaali. Black one. Dark one. Is it a slur? Kaali is an adjective, a nickname. It masquerades as concern. It comes from the people who love you, over breakfast, with a palm against your cheek.
‘Even though she is dark, she glows’
I know this because I was that child. Sixth grade, maybe seventh, and Amma is mixing kadalai maavu with paal yedu and a pinch of manjal podi, spreading the creamy paste across my face, waiting for it to dry to a crust before washing it off. I quite enjoyed the ritual, the feeling of amma’s soft palms against my cheek, the chill of the paste evaporating from the heat of my skin, the film tightening the skin until it stretched and you could no longer smile or speak. I used to stand in front of the mirror, my turmeric-tinged face staring back at me like a mask....