The Coconut Shredder:
How My Grandmother Taught Me Everything
Kadayamma was my favourite person in the world. She was my grandmother on my father’s side and lived with us in our big house. She was always kind and helpful, and I loved to spend time with her. We did many things together at home; we cleaned the floors, cooked in the kitchen, and gardened. We chatted while we worked, and she told me stories while she worked. When I was little, she told me stories until I fell asleep in her bed.
She also taught me many skills, like how to shred coconut. She said it was an important ingredient for many dishes, and I should learn how to do it well. She showed me how to hold the coconut half firmly, move my hands in different directions, and not scrape the brown shell. She said that would make the coconut taste bitter. She also showed me how to sit on the coconut shredder seat, a wooden stool with a metal blade attached. She said I should remember to apply even pressure so the coconut would come out in thin and even shreds.
The most fun part of shredding coconut was watching Kadayamma crack the coconut in half. She had a special knack for it. She would hold the coconut in one hand and hit it once with a dull brass knife, and it would split into two perfect halves. Then, she would give me the coconut water in a metal cup. It was sweet and refreshing, and I felt like I was drinking a magic potion.
Kadayamma was a master of roti-making, and she shared her secrets with me. She taught me to mix the dough with coconut flakes, adding enough water and salt to make it smooth and soft. She showed me how to shape it on a green banana leaf, like a painter on a canvas, and place it on a hot iron. She watched the fire dance under it, turning it golden and crisp. She also taught me how to roast garlic in the embers, using a clever trick to avoid burning my fingers.
She had a magic touch for making hoppers, the thin pancakes of rice and coconut. She would soak the rice flour in coconut milk overnight, letting it ferment and bubble. She would rise with the sun and make hoppers in a simple kitchen of bricks and clay. She let me sample her hoppers and make me special ones with eggs. I always preferred the thin and crispy hoppers, and she knew how to make them right for me.
Our house was surrounded by a green sea of paddy, where farmers worked hard under the sun. They wore only loincloths, and they used bulls to plough the earth. They looked like ancient warriors, and I admired their strength and courage. Beyond the paddy field was the Catholic graveyard, where people buried their dead. Sometimes, I saw funerals there, with bands playing horns and drums. They looked like festive parades, and I wondered why people celebrated death.
I asked her one day, “Why can’t I use the toilet alone?” I didn't like it when Kadayamma or my mother washed my bum. Sometimes, Linton, from next door, could see me while I waited in the backyard, naked, for Kadayamma to wash me.
“You will be big one day; then you won’t need your grandmother or mother to do these things.”
Our loyal dog Rover loved running around Kadayamma, his black tail wagging joyfully. He would chase the birds that flew near her, but he never bothered our hens. He knew they were part of our family, just like him.
We had chickens and a pig in our garden. They were our pets and our food. I liked talking to Kadayamma there; she had so much to teach me. She taught me how to feed them, clean them, and collect their eggs. She also taught me how to respect them.
The hens and their chicks were very fond of Kadayamma. They knew she was their friend. When she was in the garden, they would gather around her, waiting for a treat. Kadayamma would go to our storeroom, get some paddy and throw them to them. They would peck at them happily and make clucking noises. They sounded like they were saying, “Thank you, Kadayamma. We love you, Kadayamma.”
And I would say the same.
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