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When I was a little girl
I would get up in the morning to get ready for school
Amma was already up, 
showered and dressed before the sun 
She had prepared breakfast, lunch and dinner 
before the day had begun
The monotonous routine of the Indian woman
Was the pillar of our household
When everything else was falling apart
The rich spices were strong and bold 
like coffee, the daily aroma functioning as an alarm
Flavors that burnt my nose 
but comforted my heart

The clunky metal pressure cooker was on the stove,
Yet again
Just like me, it was imported all the way from India
And just like me, it existed as a daily functioning member of that household
And just like me, it consumed rice everyday
Not a day went by in my first 11 years of existence
that white basmati rice did not enter my system

The clunky metal pressure cooker became my nemesis
As it’s whistle blew it reminded me of a train
That had the capacity to steal me and take me faraway
Reminding me of how nothing ever felt safe

Amma.
Why do you let the pressure cooker get so hot that it screams?
Surely the rice is cooked now and we can eat.
Day after day, the pressure builds up and the whistle screeches
Make it stop.

And just like the white rice it cooked
The whiteness boiled inside of me
Pressurizing into a pristine product for others pleasure
I bathed in the waters of the pressure cooker thinking it would cleanse me
But now I feel dirtier than ever
pain was the corpse i buried thinking it was dead
but pain isn’t a corpse it’s a seed
once it's in the ground and nourished
it sprouts up into nasty weeds and surprises you

There is value in my culture and I don’t want to throw it away
Throw it into the melting pot to let it boil and disintegrate 
A one way ticket to a faraway place
The train is waiting. 
The whistle is screeching. 
Next stop — your life long American dream.

Amma, I was never strong enough to open the lid and escape
Why couldn’t I have been strong enough?
Why couldn’t you have been strong enough for me?

Amma.
Why do you let the pressure cooker get so hot that it screams?
Surely the rice is cooked now and we can eat.
Day after day, the pressure builds up and the whistle screeches
Make it stop.

white rice is not enough flavor for some
But paired with too much and suddenly 
Its overwhelming

The aftertaste
Leaves an unpleasant mark on their face
Eyebrows furrowed
Lips puckered
Confusion is uncomfortably sour 
Regret floods in 
as they reach for a glass of water
Foreign flavors to them
But savory memories to me

And with chor and torin
Curry and chapathi
Their plates are full 
But their stomachs are empty
Instead of wiping their plate clean
They are content to just sample
By rejecting our hospitality 
They reject the prime example
Of our culture
Foreign concepts to them
But second nature to me

The train is waiting. 
The whistle is screeching. 
But if only that train were taking me to my utopia
A faraway place
Where nothing has to be sacrificed
and i wave goodbye to all my fears as the fade off in the distance

Amma. 
Why do you let the pressure cooker get so hot that it screams?
Surely the rice is cooked now and we can eat.
Day after day, the pressure builds up and the whistle screeches
Make it stop.

You see, the white rice is boiling to be plain and simple
Affordable and safe
I am made to be digestible
Spicy flavors are dangerous and to be placed on the side
Eaten in the tiniest increments only if one so chooses

We put Jesus into the pressure cooker
And cook him into a white, fluffed up rice
steamed of any unnecessary and extra components
Now He is digestible

Extracting Him of his ethnicity 
A palatable Jesus, 
we take Him in aculturally

And we produce safety
Because once the rice is cooled down it's safe to eat, right?
Because they are safe,
I have to be pressurized
Day after day
Laughing and playing the same game
To protect myself in this melting pot we call tasty
Give up the charade
It's not a melting pot where every flavor stays the same
But a pressure cooker where whatever was left disintegrates
Washed away
Washed white
White washed
the American pressure cooker 
has evaporated my race
i’ve lost my taste
And now I am screaming

Shreya Ramachandran is a writer, poet, and speaker. She has a BA in Linguistics and is currently pursuing her MA in Theological Studies at Princeton Theological Seminary at the intersection of race, postcolonialism, and Asian diaspora studies.

2 Comments

  • Angela H says:

    Excellent change to the “melting pot” as a “pressure cooker.” The pressure to live the American dream, that erases your culture and be consumed and judged by a whitewashed Jesus for palatability sakes.

  • Shreya – enjoyed your poem, it viscerally created the feeling of vaporizing the particularities of flavor, taste, cultural mythology, ancestry and lineage – everything that invigorates the journey of devotion to our Arab Palestinian Jewish Christian olive skinned immensely human Jesus. That in fact is the Jesus we met when we visited Jerusrlam, Capernaum, Taybeh and the Sea of Galilee – just this spring 2023. Appropriation by the Anglican Church or white culture has to be wrestled with to save the flame of faith and allow for it to heal others too… everyone to him this story of resurrection and salvation claims.

    – much love snd strength for your ongoing journey of inquiry Nithila Maria-Punnen Peter.

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