Chellam

Amma calls me on Whatsapp—one of her eyes is swollen and infected. Usually, we greet each other with a laugh, but today we’re both quiet. “No worry,” she says, kissing the screen, and we pretend that it’s my forehead. “Amma will go to doctor, no worry,” she says, kissing and kissing the screen, and tears gather in my eyes, and she puts her palm to the screen to wipe them away. And then she asks in the usual order: “How are you, chellam? Have you eaten, chellam?” And I respond that I’m okay, “amma,” that I’ve eaten “rice and lentils, amma,” even though that isn’t true. I ate potatoes and smoked mackerel, or maybe I haven’t eaten yet. Then I pull the elastic out of my hair to show her how long it’s gotten. “Good, chellam, Indian lady,” she smiles, kissing and kissing the screen, and we pretend that it’s my forehead. “No worry, chellam, mother is healthy.” Afterwards, I hang up and write a letter that will never be sent.

***

I look in vain for curry leaves in all the greengrocers on the way home. Don’t recognize the methi leaves, end up buying cilantro as usual. Amma slices garlic with the clove and knife in one hand, while I place each clove on a cutting board and slice it into thin, even segments. Methi leaves are trifoliate, like clover leaves. The individual leaves are oval, and could be mistaken for pea shoots. I settle for methi seeds, which is all I can find. They taste like dirt and bitter syrup, have the color of amber and mustard. I’ve seen amma prepare them with potatoes, and I attempt to do the same. Fry them in a dry pan—then coconut oil, mustard seeds, diced potatoes, turmeric, water. Mimic the sequence of the movements of her hand over the pot, but it doesn’t taste like anything I remember—as usual, it tastes a little like cilantro. Everything in the correct order, and yet no meal.

***

The mango belongs to the same family as poison sumac. Its fruits vary in color: marigold, burst berry, egg yolk and grass. When the tree no longer bears fruit, its trunk and branches become kindling. As a child, I eat my first mango with the peel on, confused by the bitter and tough taste and texture. Pretend not to notice, keep chewing, write down that this is my favorite fruit. The only one I know. Attempt in vain to slice through it, but later I read about the pit at its center. This hard, impenetrable center that resembles the rest of the fruit. Can a pit be juicy and yellow? I make a list of things with juicy, yellow centers: mango pit, egg yolk, infection, lemon.

***

Mango juice runs sticky down my hands and toward my elbows. It leaves a clear trail on my dry skin, puddling in the cracks of my ash-gray elbows. Always these dry elbows, this dry skin, this evidence that we aren’t at home. That our skin cracks in the cold, that we have to swallow pills of what we should be getting from the sun. Yet another fruit I can’t seem to swallow.

***

We have forgotten our mothers’ tongue

***

I’m supposed to be sitting on a floor instead of standing, bent over a pot. I’m supposed to be able to hold the knife and garlic clove in the same hand instead of meticulously slicing it on a cutting board. Daal isn’t a dish but an ancient word for split legumes. It belongs to the pea family, a capsule that grows from a carpel that opens to release the seeds. These seeds are the red lentils, the green and black ones; they are the bluebonnets, the peas, the peanuts, the beans. The red lentil comes from an herbaceous plant called the lentil culinaris. In June, dull blue flowers blossom from the axils of the leaves. From the nook between its leaf and stalk—the plant’s small armpits. The red lentils hide in the pods. This is what we cook in our pots, what we season with the Brits’ curry powder and call daal. Half an onion, one small garlic clove, chili flakes (optional), stock. The flavors of colonialism, of coriander, of spices added in the wrong order, without being tempered first.

***

I am supposed

to know this all already

and not only now

be looking it up

amma’s movements

over the pots

are supposed

to be rooted

in my body

***

Amma strings garlands of jasmine every morning. She fixes my hair, rubs coconut oil into my legs and then my arms. “Every morning, chellam,” she says, looking disapprovingly at my dry elbows. Then she powders my cheeks, gives me a kiss and sets a garland of jasmine in my long, black hair. If only I had known to use coconut oil every day—would my skin be smooth and warm? The cold has blown against my skin for a long time. Wind and rain have settled over my body, washing away the sun and all that once glittered.

***

Amma has spread the spices for the fish in front of me. Mustard seeds, green chilis, curry leaves, garlic, and sun-ripened tomatoes. We sit below the fan on the kitchen floor, and she heaps rice onto my aluminum plate. Where does the smoke from the kitchen fire go? She points at the spices before grinding them in the large stone mortar on the floor. The scent of curry leaves and garlic fills the room. The smoke from the fire and the pepper stings my eyes, but actually there isn’t any smoke here because the fire is a gas burner. I don’t remember it that way though; I remember smoke and a fire.

***

The curry tree belongs to the same family as citrus and satinleaf. Its leaves grow featherlike from its stems. It both blossoms and bears fruit. The seeds are poisonous but sown fresh in the red soil of Tamil Nadu. The flowers are white and sweet-smelling, and the fruits small and deep red. Like berries. Berries that burst on my tongue; berries that crackle, smoke and turn to ash when I throw them into a fire. Yet another fruit I can’t seem to swallow.

***

Amma takes my hand and leads me into the garden. It is small, enclosed by walls built from the same stones as the house, which makes it look more like a room than a garden. On the far side, by the wall facing the road, grows a palash tree. This evergreen tree is also known as the flame of the forest because of its clusters of orange- and ochre-colored flowers, which from a distance make the tree look like it is on fire. “Agni is tree fire fire,” Amma says. The tree is used to make spoons, and the spoons are used to pour ghee directly into the fires of temples and altars. From this fire charcoal is made. A wooden spoon, a fire, a piece of charcoal. Agni is the god of fire. Fire on earth, lightning in the sky, sun in the universe. Everything that burns. Amma leads me to the stone altar on the other side of the garden. Now we wake Saraswati. I light candles and incense; Amma rings a bell and sings in Tamil. Are these the songs I’ve forgotten? Salt crystal, palash tree, turmeric and pepper.

***

First, Saraswati was a river. She was born of the monsoons and worshipped as all rushing water. Water that runs from the mountains to the coasts; water that swallows the all-consuming fires; water that cascades and sings. She is the god of speech and sits in the larynx. “Saraswati our house god, chellam,” amma says. I hold my breath, tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. “No worry, chellam,” she says, and puts her palms to my cheeks, wiping the tears away. “Mother is here, Saraswati is here, no worry.” All that is hidden in the larynx. I have forgotten my mothers’ tongue.

***

Grief is emerald green

emerald leaves, splintered crystal

berries that burst on my tongue

nettles, elder

grass below my feet

a blanket spread in the garden

salt crystal

***

Out by the coast, along the Bay of Bengal, lies the town of Tharangambadi. In Tharangambadi lies Fort Dansborg, which was erected by a Danish admiral who was sent to India by the king to establish a colony. In Tharangambadi, which was called Tranquebar, the Danish colonial power granted themselves the authority to trade, to impose taxes on the surrounding towns, to build this fort. Indian workers built this fort that was the base of the Danish colonial power at the beginning of the eighteenth century. From India they took goods like spices, especially pepper, cotton, and enslaved people. Twenty rigsdalers for a fresh lad, fourteen for a beautiful lady.

***

Why do you walk through my home

still wearing your shoes

what else of mine have you walked over?

You have built trading ports

by the coast of my heart

laid railroads

along my ribs

***

A distance lies between the womb and heart

a distance between your two coasts

water runs between both

***

I have forgotten my mothers’ tongue

From Chellam (Copenhagen: Gads forlag, 2022). Copyright © 2022 by Sabitha Söderholm. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2025 by Sherilyn Hellberg. Translated with support from the Danish Arts Foundation. All rights reserved.

Amma calls me on Whatsapp—one of her eyes is swollen and infected. Usually, we greet each other with a laugh, but today we’re both quiet. “No worry,” she says, kissing the screen, and we pretend that it’s my forehead. “Amma will go to doctor, no worry,” she says, kissing and kissing the screen, and tears gather in my eyes, and she puts her palm to the screen to wipe them away. And then she asks in the usual order: “How are you, chellam? Have you eaten, chellam?” And I respond that I’m okay, “amma,” that I’ve eaten “rice and lentils, amma,” even though that isn’t true. I ate potatoes and smoked mackerel, or maybe I haven’t eaten yet. Then I pull the elastic out of my hair to show her how long it’s gotten. “Good, chellam, Indian lady,” she smiles, kissing and kissing the screen, and we pretend that it’s my forehead. “No worry, chellam, mother is healthy.” Afterwards, I hang up and write a letter that will never be sent.

***

I look in vain for curry leaves in all the greengrocers on the way home. Don’t recognize the methi leaves, end up buying cilantro as usual. Amma slices garlic with the clove and knife in one hand, while I place each clove on a cutting board and slice it into thin, even segments. Methi leaves are trifoliate, like clover leaves. The individual leaves are oval, and could be mistaken for pea shoots. I settle for methi seeds, which is all I can find. They taste like dirt and bitter syrup, have the color of amber and mustard. I’ve seen amma prepare them with potatoes, and I attempt to do the same. Fry them in a dry pan—then coconut oil, mustard seeds, diced potatoes, turmeric, water. Mimic the sequence of the movements of her hand over the pot, but it doesn’t taste like anything I remember—as usual, it tastes a little like cilantro. Everything in the correct order, and yet no meal.

***

The mango belongs to the same family as poison sumac. Its fruits vary in color: marigold, burst berry, egg yolk and grass. When the tree no longer bears fruit, its trunk and branches become kindling. As a child, I eat my first mango with the peel on, confused by the bitter and tough taste and texture. Pretend not to notice, keep chewing, write down that this is my favorite fruit. The only one I know. Attempt in vain to slice through it, but later I read about the pit at its center. This hard, impenetrable center that resembles the rest of the fruit. Can a pit be juicy and yellow? I make a list of things with juicy, yellow centers: mango pit, egg yolk, infection, lemon.

***

Mango juice runs sticky down my hands and toward my elbows. It leaves a clear trail on my dry skin, puddling in the cracks of my ash-gray elbows. Always these dry elbows, this dry skin, this evidence that we aren’t at home. That our skin cracks in the cold, that we have to swallow pills of what we should be getting from the sun. Yet another fruit I can’t seem to swallow.

***

We have forgotten our mothers’ tongue

***

I’m supposed to be sitting on a floor instead of standing, bent over a pot. I’m supposed to be able to hold the knife and garlic clove in the same hand instead of meticulously slicing it on a cutting board. Daal isn’t a dish but an ancient word for split legumes. It belongs to the pea family, a capsule that grows from a carpel that opens to release the seeds. These seeds are the red lentils, the green and black ones; they are the bluebonnets, the peas, the peanuts, the beans. The red lentil comes from an herbaceous plant called the lentil culinaris. In June, dull blue flowers blossom from the axils of the leaves. From the nook between its leaf and stalk—the plant’s small armpits. The red lentils hide in the pods. This is what we cook in our pots, what we season with the Brits’ curry powder and call daal. Half an onion, one small garlic clove, chili flakes (optional), stock. The flavors of colonialism, of coriander, of spices added in the wrong order, without being tempered first.

***

I am supposed

to know this all already

and not only now

be looking it up

amma’s movements

over the pots

are supposed

to be rooted

in my body

***

Amma strings garlands of jasmine every morning. She fixes my hair, rubs coconut oil into my legs and then my arms. “Every morning, chellam,” she says, looking disapprovingly at my dry elbows. Then she powders my cheeks, gives me a kiss and sets a garland of jasmine in my long, black hair. If only I had known to use coconut oil every day—would my skin be smooth and warm? The cold has blown against my skin for a long time. Wind and rain have settled over my body, washing away the sun and all that once glittered.

***

Amma has spread the spices for the fish in front of me. Mustard seeds, green chilis, curry leaves, garlic, and sun-ripened tomatoes. We sit below the fan on the kitchen floor, and she heaps rice onto my aluminum plate. Where does the smoke from the kitchen fire go? She points at the spices before grinding them in the large stone mortar on the floor. The scent of curry leaves and garlic fills the room. The smoke from the fire and the pepper stings my eyes, but actually there isn’t any smoke here because the fire is a gas burner. I don’t remember it that way though; I remember smoke and a fire.

***

The curry tree belongs to the same family as citrus and satinleaf. Its leaves grow featherlike from its stems. It both blossoms and bears fruit. The seeds are poisonous but sown fresh in the red soil of Tamil Nadu. The flowers are white and sweet-smelling, and the fruits small and deep red. Like berries. Berries that burst on my tongue; berries that crackle, smoke and turn to ash when I throw them into a fire. Yet another fruit I can’t seem to swallow.

***

Amma takes my hand and leads me into the garden. It is small, enclosed by walls built from the same stones as the house, which makes it look more like a room than a garden. On the far side, by the wall facing the road, grows a palash tree. This evergreen tree is also known as the flame of the forest because of its clusters of orange- and ochre-colored flowers, which from a distance make the tree look like it is on fire. “Agni is tree fire fire,” Amma says. The tree is used to make spoons, and the spoons are used to pour ghee directly into the fires of temples and altars. From this fire charcoal is made. A wooden spoon, a fire, a piece of charcoal. Agni is the god of fire. Fire on earth, lightning in the sky, sun in the universe. Everything that burns. Amma leads me to the stone altar on the other side of the garden. Now we wake Saraswati. I light candles and incense; Amma rings a bell and sings in Tamil. Are these the songs I’ve forgotten? Salt crystal, palash tree, turmeric and pepper.

***

First, Saraswati was a river. She was born of the monsoons and worshipped as all rushing water. Water that runs from the mountains to the coasts; water that swallows the all-consuming fires; water that cascades and sings. She is the god of speech and sits in the larynx. “Saraswati our house god, chellam,” amma says. I hold my breath, tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. “No worry, chellam,” she says, and puts her palms to my cheeks, wiping the tears away. “Mother is here, Saraswati is here, no worry.” All that is hidden in the larynx. I have forgotten my mothers’ tongue.

***

Grief is emerald green

emerald leaves, splintered crystal

berries that burst on my tongue

nettles, elder

grass below my feet

a blanket spread in the garden

salt crystal

***

Out by the coast, along the Bay of Bengal, lies the town of Tharangambadi. In Tharangambadi lies Fort Dansborg, which was erected by a Danish admiral who was sent to India by the king to establish a colony. In Tharangambadi, which was called Tranquebar, the Danish colonial power granted themselves the authority to trade, to impose taxes on the surrounding towns, to build this fort. Indian workers built this fort that was the base of the Danish colonial power at the beginning of the eighteenth century. From India they took goods like spices, especially pepper, cotton, and enslaved people. Twenty rigsdalers for a fresh lad, fourteen for a beautiful lady.

***

Why do you walk through my home

still wearing your shoes

what else of mine have you walked over?

You have built trading ports

by the coast of my heart

laid railroads

along my ribs

***

A distance lies between the womb and heart

a distance between your two coasts

water runs between both

***

I have forgotten my mothers’ tongue

From Chellam (Copenhagen: Gads forlag, 2022). Copyright © 2022 by Sabitha Söderholm. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2025 by Sherilyn Hellberg. Translated with support from the Danish Arts Foundation. All rights reserved.