The Waiting Game

Spices and Silence

The short story is about a Sri Lankan family’s lunchtime ritual and the unspoken tensions that simmer beneath the surface in the 1960s. The story centres around Denzil and Rekha, two young children who eagerly await their lunch while navigating their family’s dynamics, particularly the indifference of their uncle, Maama. The children’s anticipation for the meal is juxtaposed with their uncle’s distant demeanour, highlighting the disparity in their social standing and the complexities of family life. Through vivid descriptions of food and subtle behaviour observations, the author reveals the children’s resilience and growing awareness of the world around them.

The modest home in Colombo wafted with spices, a siren call to hungry stomachs. Amma’s voice, tinged with the weariness of a long day’s labour, summoned the children to the dining room.

Ever the enthusiast, Denzil declared with boyish charm, “I am so hungry!” Not to be outdone, his sister Rekha chirped her agreement as they clambered onto the worn chairs flanking the imposing table — a relic of their parents’ nuptials made by their grandfather, its scratched surface a testament to years of family gatherings.

As the children, their stomachs rumbling with hunger, took their seats, Maama’s absence was a heavy presence. Their uncle, secluded in his room, seemed oblivious to the family’s mealtime ritual. His indifference was as palpable as the scent of Amma’s cooking.

In the kitchen, Amma sighed, her eyes darting between the steaming pots and the empty chair at the head of the table. Another day, another meal, another reminder of the delicate balance of family life in their Sri Lankan home.

Amma’s gaze lingered on the empty chair where her husband should have sat. But duty had spirited him away to a remote hamlet in the island’s southern reaches. The cruel dictates of his transfer meant his presence graced their humble home but once a month, leaving a void as vast as the Indian Ocean that surrounded them.

Like a stage set for an incomplete play, the dining table bore witness to the family’s unspoken hierarchy. Before the children lay sturdy metal plates and cups, which were utilitarian and unbreakable, much like the resilience expected of the young in these trying times. Yet opposite them, in stark contrast, Maama’s place was set with china and glass, a daily reminder of his elevated status within their four walls. The disparity in dinnerware spoke volumes of the subtle power dynamics that governed their lives, a microcosm of the world beyond their door.

As Amma placed the steaming dishes on the table, the clinking of metal against china seemed to echo the dissonance of their fractured family unit. She wondered, not for the first time, how long they could maintain this precarious balance before something — or someone — would inevitably break.

In the dining room, two pairs of young eyes darted hungrily between the vibrant tableau of dishes before them: the fiery fish curry, its red surface shimmering with promise; the verdant leafy salad, plucked from their modest garden, a reminder of life’s small mercies; and the sunny yellow dhal, as comforting as a grandmother’s embrace.

Yet amidst this feast for the senses, the children’s gazes invariably returned to the mound of red rice, its rustic hue a stark reminder of their station. “White rice is not for you,” their mother’s voice echoed in their memories, a mantra of resigned acceptance of their lot in life.

As minutes stretched into an eternity of childish impatience, Denzil and Rekha’s exasperation grew palpable. Their eyes flicked repeatedly to the empty chair across from them, set with its expensive china and awaiting an uncle who had never deigned to show them a modicum of affection. The irony was not lost on them, even in their tender years, that they should wait upon a man who seemed to view them as mere inconveniences in his ordered existence.

In the stifling heat of the Colombo afternoon, time seemed to congeal like cooling ghee. The children’s stomachs growled in protest; a chorus of discontent mirrored the unspoken tensions simmering beneath the surface of their fractured family life.

As they waited, their young minds wandered to forbidden territories, recalling clandestine moments spent crouched before their uncle’s door. They remembered the cool brass of the keyhole against their curious eyes, offering tantalising glimpses into Maama’s mysterious domain. What secrets lay beyond that threshold, they wondered, in the realm where they were so staunchly unwelcome?

Maama’s room was a fortress of solitude, its borders as impenetrable as the walls of an ancient castle. To Denzil and Rekha, it might as well have been on another continent, so alien was its occupant to their world of childish concerns and simple joys. They had long since learned that knocking on that door was as futile as trying to coax sweetness from a bitter gourd.

Indeed, sweetness was a currency that Maama seemed to lack entirely. While other relatives arrived bearing treats — toffees gleaming like tiny suns or sweetmeats cut into precise diamonds — Maama’s hands remained perpetually empty, save for the magazines he used to shield himself from their hopeful gazes. His disdain hung about him like a cloak, his silence more cutting than any harsh word could be.

The children had never known the warmth of their uncle’s embrace, had never felt the rough stubble of his cheek against their smooth ones in the customary kiss of greeting. To them, he was like a statue in a forgotten church — ever-present yet utterly removed, inspiring not reverence but a mixture of fear and bewilderment.

The rule at home was that the eldest had to serve first, which meant the two kids had to wait indefinitely until their errant uncle arrived on his glory seat and served himself.

Finally, Maama emerged from his room, wearing a worn banyan that had long ago lost its pristine whiteness and a striped sarong. He sat in front of them, the act of thanking his sister for the meal as alien to him as showing affection to his niece and nephew.

He served himself first, taking the largest piece of fish, a heaping portion of rice, and greens before eating. The two kids followed suit, their thoughts drifting to their father, away in a remote town. Denzil wondered what his father might be eating for lunch. Unlike their father, Maama never spoke to his niece and nephew; instead, he regarded them with a gaze devoid of emotion or warmth.

The two kids looked at each other, silently pondering the strange character before them. They observed how he mixed his rice with the curries and put the food in his mouth. Maama, aware of their scrutiny, began a peculiar ritual. After each mouthful, he would insert his middle finger into his mouth, a silent gesture intended to amuse — or perhaps unsettle — the two children staring at him.

Denzil and Rekha exchanged glances, their eyes twinkling with shared mirth at their uncle’s odd behaviour. At that moment, they were united not just by hunger but by the shared weight of their uncle’s eccentricity — a burden that, for now, at least, they could bear with a grin.