The Imaginary Cake | K. Hariharan

‘Bom dia’ (Good morning) greeted the barista when Gayathri entered the coffee shop. She ordered a cappuccino and nestled in the nearest cushion facing Lisbon’s famous Belem tower through transparent walls. A beautifully wrapped pastry behind the counter caught her attention. ‘Boa escolha’ (Good choice), served the barista. Gayathri eyed the pastry topped with cream and nuts with chocolate flakes bulging out of the icing and slowly entertained her taste buds to scan it. Not a bite and she clicked “Ptchh, not this!!” and kept the pastry sadly back on the table waiting for her coffee. Gayathri is a senior marketing professional in a medical equipment company operating in several parts of Europe. Her trip to Lisbon now is one among the hundreds she needs to undertake in her fast paced professional arena. Lost she might be in the robotic corporate world devoid of genuineness.  Yet, it’s during such nostalgic loneliness with a cup ofcoffee and the continued search of her missed pastry she actually lives her life.

As Gayathri’s pastry slowly disappeared to her appetite, her mind was busy travelling in time. Travelling back 30 years, that too to a beautiful place like Payyannur, a small municipal town in the northern Kerala, where she grew up till long past her adolescent years is indeed a pleasant time travel for her. While few cities in Kerala rush towards urbanization, Payyannur’s development pace has been lethargic. Perhaps, the ever proud Payyannurians may argue that it is already a developed town marking its presence in the historic travelogues of Bathutha, Marcopolo and others. But, the more realistic truth is the communism running through the veins and arteries and therefore the heart of the people. Unsolicited support for socialism and hartals everyday for everything doesn’t go hand in hand with the concept of today’s capitalistic urbanization.

Gayathri had undertaken this time travel innumerable times in the past that she missed no minute details. It was a typical monsoon day and the mangrove delta bloated its banks from the heavenly downpour. Sheets of water descended down the tiled roof in front of her old house which muffled the cracking of mustard in the kitchen. As rain abated, Gayathri came and sat on the veranda holding a hot cup of tea. The wrinkled cotton pinafore she wore wasn’t thick enough to insulate her from the chillness of the monsoon veranda. Shrinking her 8 year old shoulders, Gayathri gasped as she sat on the cold cement floor. That being a lazy Saturday morning, she was not shouted off to get ready for school. Instead, Narayani amma, busy behind the kitchen was cursing Gayathri’s father for something. The event being an everyday morning ritual, neither Gayathri nor her four elder sisters spanning across 20 years of Narayani’s and K.K.Madhava Podhuval’s productive marriage life paid any attention to it. Madhava podhuval entered the scene after his daily bath in the temple tank. If his screeching cycle hadn’t announced his arrival, the flicking of his wet ‘Kaavi mundu’ before letting it dry on the backyard line definitely did. Narayani peeped through the kitchen window, confirmed his arrival and went silent stocking her curses for the future. No, she wasn’t afraid of him, no women, especially no rich Nambiar woman married to a poor Podhuval is afraid of her husband in the matriarchal Payyannur.  Yet, it was an untold rule not to reveal the power secrets in front of children, for they might take advantage of it. Madhava podhuval went straight to the puja room cramped with framed deities choking under the fumes of cheap agarbathi and spread a scratch of sandal paste across his forehead. That was only a routine, for the real gods he worshipped were Karlmarx and Che Guevera like the rest. Puttu and chai were ready when he sat in the drawing room facing the smiling portraits of E.M.S.Namboodiripad and K.P.Kunhirama Poduval, veteran communists whose portraits are more common than that of Lord Subramanya and Guruvayoorappa.

As he silently mixed the puttu with coconut gratings and payaru, Narayani came to him, “We may be late today, so I shall pack your lunch when you leave”. Madhava podhuval looked at her questioningly unable to recollect where she was going. She looked at his confusion and started shouting “have you forgotten? Didn’t I tell you that my sister’s daughter Lekshmi has delivered a boy and am going to see her today? “. He lifted his eyebrows, an apology to acknowledge that he had forgotten. When asked for money to buy a gift, he politely replied “Ask Ismail”. Readers might have noticed that these were the only words uttered so far by him, making him fit for a perfect protagonist in Adoor Gopalakrishnan’s award film. Ismail, by the way is a close aide and perennial financier of the family. He owns a timber depot in Kurunkadavu road behind the south bazaar. Madhava podhuval, a poor elementary school teacher commanded respect in his neighbourhood and getting a token loan is never a problem. But, it pricked the pride of Narayani amma, who hailed from a wealthy family. “How many rich proposals I had then !! But my parents chose this daridhra kuchelan for his sarkaar job”, Narayani’s monologue went on even after two long decades.

Gayathri walked with her mother to see her cousin’s new born. Her tightly braided hairs squeezed out the residual coconut oil across her forehead which sparkled with the protruding sweat drops melting the tiny layer of cuticura talcum powder. She wore her treasured pink frock bought two onams back and pressed neat for every occasion. When she reached Lekshmi chechi’s home, Narayani boiled with rage seeing the stains on the frock which Gayathri had casually let penetrate from the stagnant mud splashed by a passing local bus. Narayani’s sister welcomed them both, affectionately pinching Gayathri’s cheeks. Gayathri being the last kid never had an opportunity to baby-sit and the new born excited her. As Gayathri started playing with the baby, the sisters settled in kitchen letting the young mother take rest. The sisters had tons of subjects to gossip about over tea, which they briefly stopped when they heard someone at door. It was Paaru kutti, Narayani’s second sister. Paaru kutti was famous for her good looks and got married to a wealthy family. Her splendid villa in Kokkinasery road near Maduthampadi temple was envied upon by almost everyone in the locality. She naturally tended to show-off her extravagance in her sarees and jewelleries. This often irritated Narayani. Pride and poverty are inseparable and intensifies when you have a wealthy sister. During some occasion in the past, Paaru kutti blurted out some casual remark about Narayani’s poverty which didn’t sink well and let to a war of words between the sisters. It was worsened by their egos letting a bitter animosity between them. These things are common and some time in future they would reconcile. So, everyone, including their eldest sister, whose house they were assembled then never attempted to bring peace between them, as it was useless then.

Seeing Paarukutti’s entry, Narayani cut the conversation abruptly. Hatred emotions contorted her face severely. The eldest sister took the cue and welcomed Paaru kutti to the side room. The wall between the side room and kitchen indeed did some favour in temporarily capsuling the abhorrence between the two sisters. Their eldest sister had to cleverly manage them both individually. Paaru kutti had brought lots of fruits, a sliver Sangu and along with that, a packet of cake from a nearby bakery. Paaru kutti’s entry caught Gayathri’s attention too, but she was transfixed at the sight of cakes on the table in the drawing room. The cake was a very traditional foam cake with soft brown baked edges wrapped  in a translucent oil paper. It was south india’s most common tea cake and Gayathri had seen it every day encaged within the beautiful glass bottles of ‘Mukund bakery’ in south bazaar. Like every moderate kid, she never entertained palatal pleasures at the sight of cakes, for she knew that she could never buy one. It may not cost much, but buying a cake is an act of extravagance when half the month’s ration was supported by loan from Ismail. But it was different then, the cake was not somewhere in the bakery, it was just in front of her, within reachable limits. She could very well go and take one, but restrained herself, assuring that her loving valiamma (Narayani’s eldest sister) will give her one soon.

As time flew, she grew tired playing with the baby. The baby too was tired of her and dozed off next to sleeping Lekshmi chechi. Gayathri came out and passed the drawing room and smiled at Paaru kutti. Paarukutti may loathe Narayani, but that had nothing to do with the love for her niece. Gayathri went and hugged her before settling in Narayani’s lap. Narayani was still conversing with her elder sister, who had to take shifts talking with Paaru kutti and Narayani in adjacent rooms. Oblivious to the surrounding, Gayathri’s stare was fixed to the white cake on the table. She couldn’t wait and couldn’t control her impetus to ask her valiyamma’s permission to grab the cake. She grew tired of waiting, but the thought of having a cake for real kept up her momentum. She chuckled herself when she thought that she could boast to her friends that she actually had tasted the cake. What would be her friend’s response? They would envy her. May be Kavya, her best friend would even admonish her for not saving a portion for her. How could she? Gayathri after all, was about to have the cake for the first time in her life and that was not a time for charity.  She tried to divert her attention to a thumbi in the courtyard, followed by a bee over the jasmine bush, and then a lizard in the ceiling, but eventually came back to the cake. She was afraid whether the lizard or ant may smell the cake and take a portion off. She dreaded the thought and immediately looked at the cakes, satisfied at its safety and then looked around again. She grew bored and tired of waiting. She felt asleep, but her attention was always rapt on the table. She imagined herself alone in a large house, with every room filled with those white cakes and herself eating one by one never bored albeit its infinite abundance.

After almost an hour or so, Gayathri’s valiyamma brewed a second chai, this time with some extra milk for Gayathri. Gayathri was excited that chai may include cake too. Still, she was feverishly praying, adults can’t be trusted; they may forget the cake in the seriousness of their useless conversation. They never understand the needs of children. Gayathri closely followed, chai came to them and valiyamma went towards her seat near Narayani, much to Gayathri’s disappointment. Gayathri had prayed to almost all the gods of universe to remind her valimma for the cake. Just to save the world from one more potential atheist, her prayers were answered. Her valiamma smiled at her as if she remembered something suddenly and went to the drawing room. Gayathri’s eyes followed; anything could happen then, someone could suddenly knock the door, the baby could cry or something or the other could distract and her chances of getting the cake would be nothing but a mirage. The few strides her valiyamma took towards the table were feverishly followed and yes !! she actually took a cake. She was finally getting her cherished cake in real and that too within seconds.  The soft white paper wrapping the sponge cake chirped and it felt like music in Gayathri’s ears. Gayathri couldn’t conceal her excitement, her mouth widened and oh, she was grinning wide till her ears.

Just when her valiamma handed over the cake, just when Gayathri could have got hold of the treasure she deserved, just when Gayathri’s long wish was about to be fulfilled, Narayani stormed in “I or my kid wants nothing from that Paaru’s charity”. Gayathri was shocked, speechless, even tears failed to cooperate. A sudden cloud of pervasive emotions filled her rib cage, choked her breath and tears. The shock was so sudden that she felt her blood turning black with rage and thumping her blood vessels in the cranial cavities. She didn’t know how to respond. Worse was valiamma’s apathy that she left the cake back to the table. She knew it was not wise to enrage Narayani, but her political maneuver cost Gayathri a chance she had never dreamed of. Gayathri felt stabbed right through, perhaps Shakespere’s Antonio might have grieved less if Shylock actually had cut a pound of flesh. Gayathri couldn’t weep fearing Narayani’s temper. A mother offive girls knows better to reprimand a 8 year girl with tears. Her lips pursed her disappointment and buried the sorrow, yet it kept swelling across her oesophagus oscillating her throat muscles. She went out, wanted to cry, but there were kids around. A competition between self- pride and self-pity let the latter win and she broke out in the backyard, ofcourse without the notice ofNarayani.

Soon. they had to leave. Narayani walked steadfast controlling her distress in meeting Paarukutti there. Gayathri clung to her mother; she cared nothing for her pink frock, or the talcum powder. Depressed with the loss of cake she rightfully deserved, she cursed her mother for not letting her eat the cake and for fighting with Paaru kutti, the reasons which were beyond her understanding. When she crossed the bazaar, the soft cake wrapped in white paper caught her attention again. She wanted to break herself and pounce on it. Her helplessness paralysed her and she couldn’t run. She cursed the world and felt that no one in the world was so unfortunate as herself. And she cried, in the middle of the road caring nothing about the known faces around. For rest of the world, it was not a rare sight to see a weeping kid trotting behind a young mother. The significance of the first hand feeling of deprived rights by an 8 year old thus went unnoticed, just like the miseries of all the suppressed people around the world.

Gayathri entered her home and in minutes, Narayani shoved a plate of choru (rice) and morucurry with achar (pickles). As Gayathri sat facing Che Guevara and Karl Marx in their drawing room like her father that morning, she tried to comprehend the Soviet stories her father told her when she had asked about the portraits. She thought that may be this was how the people felt, may be somebody denied a bigger cake to them. During those silent moments of that afternoon, Payyannur gave birth to one more communist.. Gayathri washed her hands near the well and went to the terrace, her lonely world for lofty thoughts. Amidst the uncontrollable sorrow, she wondered how the cake might have tasted. She simulated the soft velvet cake too fragile to her touch breaking into pieces in her mouth and melting down. Even on the top of the residual achar she had had, she felt the sweet cake traversing down. She felt elated imagining the taste and enraged at its loss and the cycle continued.

The weekend passed. Gayathri’s miseries were anonymously buried before Sunday evening and by Monday morning she had forgotten her loss till she saw the cake in the bazaar that evening. She felt silent for a moment and walked home sadly. Everyday since then, it became her routine to silently moan for the loss at every instance of passing the bakery. She used to stop a while near the bakery, inhaling the aroma of the cake and detesting everyone who bought that cake from the bakery. She felt that it was hers and even felt an urge to shop lift a cake daring the consequences, but something prevented her. On pensive mood, the cake would cross her mind. She would re-enact the day and would imagine all the possible scenarios of her getting the cake without Narayani’s notice; perhaps her Valiamma could have given it when she was with the baby, or secretly could have pressed a piece without Narayani’s notice. She else could have convinced Narayani for letting her have the cake. Worse, her mother and Paarukutti could have reconciled suddenly on that day. All the possibilities were simulated and each of them caused more pain and frustration of the missing cake. Each enactment pushed the virtual taste of the cake to the next hierarchy that after a while even devamrutham could not possibly match its taste. She couldn’t forgive her mother for the loss.

After almost a year, Gayathri actually got the cake, Ismail bhai brought one for her birthday. She treasured it till home and carefully opened it, letting not a single bit to drop. She tore apart the corner and shivered with excitement, at the prospect of having her life’s first cake. But, but, no…. she was disappointed. The cake tasted so plain. It was not the taste she had imagined it to be. She scraped the last bit from the wrapper and gulped it with her chai. The frustration mounted when she thought about her year long yearning for this stupid piece of cake. Yet, the divine tasteof the imaginary cake she had honed to perfection by then haunted her.

Her search for that imaginary cake began with a determination……………..

Years rolled…She never left an opportunity to miss a pastry, and none of them matched her imagination. She in fact secretly started collecting the pictures of beautiful cakes in magazines, went through all possible cookery literature she could grab about cakes. The aroma, texture, taste and the sweetness of the cake in her mind was beyond comprehension and she was displeased that why no bakers could imagine such a combination. Despite the dynamic changes of life’s priorities, her search lingered along unnoticed. She shared not the search to anyone, not even to her mother, but continued her search for the perfect cake. She used to get excited at every new cake, wondering the prospect of finally discovering the treasure, but the search stretched to horizon. Nevertheless that only increased her craving for that cake.

In the next 30 years that followed her visit to Lekshmi chechi, she went to top universities, and had an M.B.A trailing her name before joining her present company. Along with her academic growth from a humble town, grew her unending search for the imaginary cake she couldn’t eat on that monsoon day. She might have tried thousands of pastries by then including the one she had now at the coffee shop staring the Belem tower. Each time, she fervently hoped that she would come across that imaginary cake for real, but in vain.

Outra coisa madame !! (Anything else madam), the barista offered his best possible smile. Gayathri came out of the coffee shop and looked at the Belem tower again. Like the shackles that held many a prisoners under the belly of Belem, her quest for the imaginary cake was restrained deep inside. The gentle night breeze spread past her soothingly and she walked ahead with her never ending hopes of discovering her lost cake.

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K.Hariharan is presently working as Assistant Professor in IIT Delhi. Hariharan’s past time includes reading and writing fiction. He has published a short story in ‘Skive magazine’ (June 2009) and two short stories in inline literary magazine “Tamarind rice”.