Endless Summer
Apoorva Sripathi walks through the bylanes of Chennai in what feels like an endless summer.
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This essay is part of Issue #1: Sunlight. We are slowly moving writings from our physical magazines to Substack for you. Hope you enjoy consuming them.
Summer's possibilities are endless.
I dread Chennai summers, so I'm always on my guard. Sometime in early March I can't help but notice the feeling of overwhelming warmth creeping up behind me. Moments later, my neck is glistening with sweat that has travelled down and inside my shirt – sweat cooling even the warm breeze that sets in late in the evening.
Mornings are worse. I can't seem to toast a slice of sourdough bread in the kitchen without exclaiming "it's really hot!" at least eleven times during the process, while wiping my brow, my neck, my face, and my back – and not in that order every time. My parents are sick of hearing me complain and pretend otherwise. The season sucks my energy in small bouts, resulting in my frequent collapse in the room next to our kitchen for short breaks. It is 11.30 am before I sit down to eat my first meal of the day.
Half an hour later, we set off to the local market for vegetables and idle talk, and came back with tomatoes, potatoes, curry leaves, and secrets.
But despite my constant whining about the heat, the thought of the sun fortifies me – the possibilities of its warmth seem endless, foremost in food. Instant thoughts include cool cucumbers, juicy red watermelons, luxurious mangoes (duh!), sweet limes, ICE CREAMS, perhaps iced coffee to start my mornings with. Amber-hued evening sun compels me to take a walk around my neighborhood, ending at my local bakery to savor a hot veggie puff with a crackly golden crust – the type that provides satisfying ASMR when you scratch it with a knife – a fluffy bun filled with cloying and copious vanilla cream, and spongy cakes smeared with thick chocolate icing.
Golden afternoons indicate that the time is ripe for juicing சாத்துக்குடி (sweet lime); peels scattered everywhere, its fragrance sending signals. On persimmon mornings, I'm tempted to cut into a mango and drink its juices, saving the luminous pulp for later. Coffee after, black and iced. Sometimes laziness overtakes and I settle for whatever ice cream is in the freezer, for breakfast, announcing to no one in particular that "it's summer, anything goes!" – a maxim that I repeat in winter* when I slather my paratha with chunks of butter.
My mother and I have a plan – pickling green mango in oil and spices, a year's worth of condiment ready in a moment's notice. Planning in the present to make comforting future meals, which is eerily similar to preservation itself. Both the act of making a pickle and the pickle itself are the same thing. Once we mix everything together, we stand and admire its brilliance: its blood-rich color, striking hot flavor akin to the scorching sun. For lunch the next day there's mor kuzhambu, a cousin to the kadhi, sour soup (sauce? gravy? curry?) with fried okra floating gently and served hot with rice, but cold with sevai (a type of rice noodles). The mango pickle isn't ready yet.
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