"Hear no evil, speak no evil, and you won’t be invited to cocktail parties."
— Oscar Wilde (via pabl0escobar)
"I love saying the name. Each sweet syllable seems like there ought to be
a crush of sugar on your tongue, a tiny reward just for saying the word.
These soft milk-balls, fried golden and soaked in sugar syrup, are
glassed up in a luxuriously oversized jar that my grandmother collects
under her spice table to store homemade mango and spicy lime pickles.
But for Uncle Jacob, these jars serve as seasonal aquariums. When I
asked him where the fish in the gulabjamoon jar (now sitting in the
center of his dining table) came from, he said after rain, these fish appear
in road puddles. Uncle asked a boy to catch some in a towel: a present for
my aunt. These fish are small, two inches long. A black teardrop shape
behind each eye, and again, if you didn’t catch it the first time, on the
tail. Odd because they don’t have the traditional fish ‘shape,’ where the
body tapers into a kiss mouth and ends in a swish of tail — more like
little silver rectangles suspended in the jar. Uncle said when the puddles
dry up in the sun, the fish aren’t there to crack and split their smooth
milkskins. He’s never yet seen one dead in the street. Like the fish knew
they had to move to a new wet place. Perhaps they were snatched up by
a dog or pecked to bits by a rooster. All over the village, wet dogs and
wet chickens roam the moss-covered alleys. Nobody knows who cares
for these animals but all of them have a crafty gleam in their eye that
says: Yes, I ate more than even you today. On the table, the fish watch me
watch them eat rice, the only food my aunt gives them. I see the rice
fluff in their bellies, swelling. I tap the jar with a fork and the only
response is a slight shift in their togetherness — a white square of silk
thrown into a small sea."
— "Gulabjamoon Jar," Aimee Nezhukumatathil (via commovente)