Translated fiction: Tired of making a living from singing and poverty, Mayilan runs away from home

We were their guests. They led us to our seats. They served the children ghee rice and mutton. Pots of toddy were placed before the adults.

“We have fish curry and narumpizhi made from rice. Please eat to your heart’s content!”

The heady aroma that rose up when the brew was poured from the pot into the cup left me elated.

“How do you make this?” I asked Azhakan, when my cup emptied in a second.

“I’ll tell you,” he grinned. “But it should stay a secret!”

“It can be made in many ways. This is how we do it: soak the rice, press it into balls, and dry it well in a large open-mouthed basin. Then add fragrant leaves of many kinds to it for one day and night. Then add the thaathirippoo, the flower that glows like fire, and also jaggery. You must stir the mixture well with your hands twice every day as you add the ingredients. Then pour the mixture into mud pots with narrow mouths, tie the mouths well with cloth and leave it for a long time. Finally, you have to pass it through a sieve of palm fibre made from strands cooked in boiling water.”

I noted down his instructions in my mind....

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