Laila Tastes
by Shaan Anoushka Saggar

I am here to get paid, just like you. I am here to make television. I am here to make television. I am here to get paid. I am here to make television. The first of my time. The first of my kind. I think someone might even have said that to me in the studio then. And I would have smiled, instinctively. 

Onscreen, a claw clamps my hands. Guiding them as they chop chop chop chop, hack away at leafy bunches. Shining eyes glance at the unrestraint with which they sprout at the side of the fenced-in compound. Encouraging nods from the cameraman. My line: ‘Can’t get more organic than that,’ little tinny voice rings out, jaunty, cheeky, coached, tutored, scolded into received pronunciation. And they laugh along. 

Her chappals hug mine in, her shins her knees her thighs flank me like a brace. I look closer now and realise that my squat is not nearly as good as I had thought. I am actually leaning back into hers. Every so often she gently pushes my clumsy, pretty, painted fingers to one side and takes full control of the blade herself. All eyes on me. They thought I knew how to make this masala. They thought I knew how to slaughter and skin and butcher that goat snuffling around the camera gear we dumped at the side of the gate. Looking back, in my audition, I’m thinking I may have told them I did. 

Laughter echoes again from the speakers as Aunty lightly smacks my slim wrist refusing to hold the hot pot still over the flame. That made for good TV. When I giggled guiltily and poked my tongue towards the camera, eyes rolling to heaven, head bobbing side to side in mimicry of this Aunty Anonymous. I should have been paid more. She should have been paid at all. 

Squirming, my face still flushes in rage and in shame. Naturally, at any opportunity my mother drags out these tapes and forces guests to sit quietly and watch her commandeer the remote and start them and stop them and rewind and zoom. Particularly painfully through the opening and closing credits with the artistic montages of my face silhouetted in front of miniature spice mountains at a market, endless billowing wheat fields, a colourful motorway, the quiet banks of any stretch of any river.  

There I am again, hopping cutely off a motorcycle that draws up at the side of a dusty road. ‘Let’s see if my limited language skills hold up in this new part of town!’ I grin into the camera. That mischievous face gives her such character. And those teeth! Gorgeous. The contrast John, the contrast. Makes editing a breeze, I’m telling you. She has no idea what a goldmine she is. Exactly what we need right now. A Godsend. Absolute Godsend. And my halo floats as I skip between stalls, ceaseless chatter film growing fatter with each vain comment that pops into my head and out of my mouth.  

I am jabbering a mishmash of jumbled dialects and my accent is abysmal. Accidentally on purpose. I am there to get the laughs. Strict instruction: scrounge sellable smiles from these people. My God, if that’s not an advert for Colgate I don’t know what is, John. Maybe we should all start chewing on leaves and scrubbing with sticks. 

Works for them Pete! I’m up for anything, me. We want them clapping and singing and giving us material that will justify our budget. Justify our jobs. Make our trek worthwhile and get us something good to take home like a souvenir. Like a taste. 

‘Get her to feed you, if you could please Laila. With her fingers.’ I double take, making sure I have heard Dan right. He is nodding and gesturing circular movements with one pinched, pink hand. Watching now, I see myself a little thrown. I’m bending, halving my modest height to try and meet her aged stoop. Hands on knees, I lower myself, careful remember hold my head and face angled upwards, catch the waning light, keep the cameras clinging. My mouth puckers in a little waiting circle, eyes expectant, desperate to communicate what I need and fighting to maintain contact with hers that are growing in embarrassment and telling me plainly leave them alone. She seems just as confused as I am, smiling gummily, hands still busy rolling and slapping. I open my mouth a fraction wider and start nodding my head at her. ‘Keep going Laila. She’ll catch on eventually. Keep going, you’re doing fine.’ So I do. Wobbling my head maniacally now, mouth hanging down, chin thrust forwards, hips swung back, zigzagged in an intermediate yoga pose, forcing feeding from this stranger. At this point, I had straightened up. Cameras had cut. 

‘It’s not happening, Chris. She must think I’m insane.’ Charlotte stands at one side off camera, waving wildly for Aunty’s attention. She mimes eating and chomping, lips smacking and fingers shoving themselves in and out of gaping crimson jaws. 

‘Again. She’ll get it. Try again Laila.’ I did. And finally, mercifully, she did. I’m stretching to standing again, this time chewing meditatively. Shouted instruction for slow motion. ‘Feel the food Laila, feel the food.’ My eyes flutter closed, face tips back to bathe in the low evening light. ‘Yes Laila! More!’ I give an audible exhale and let my pleasure softly hum out loud. ‘Turn up the volume, Laila please. A little louder!’ A little louder. The bite has turned to water in my mouth. It was a paratha to begin with. Gobi paratha. I saw her make it. Everybody here saw her sift it and knead it and ball it and pat it. Everybody at home will witness too. I’d cooed and cocked my head to ogle her stuffing and smoothing and stretching it circular beneath her battered wooden pin. And we all watched it sizzle and spit on the pan. This one missing a piece that she had eventually broken off and popped in my grateful mouth, is now cold, wet mush that I am contract-bound to keep rolling around my tongue and teeth until Chris holds up his thick hand: enough. 

I lean into my sagging sofa, letting my itching neck stretch over its cracked leather back. Then crumple, folds of skin gathering in the hollow space above my sternum’s bony plate. I have become sun-spotted here, and shiny like at some point I had had the region covered with a plasticky protective film. There is a dull thump as my chin meets my chest. The back of my neck prickles and smarts with the stretching of the skin and I think back to the last time I properly oiled there. This splintering is dryness, I chant to myself, willing absorption, retention by repetition. Lizard skin. Oil more often. Snap up when I threaten to split. Finger on fast forward, I whizz through the scenes. Oh God. The wedding.  

‘Her feet, Laila! Touch her feet!’ Of course, I oblige. Great vats of lamb stink and stew in the indoor-outdoor kitchen setup that Charlotte had gone wild over. Grossly chirpy, I dance over to inspect steaming troughs of rainbow rice. A cloud of hot condensation smacks me in my face, swallows my head whole as I lift the tin lid for the peek I am told to take. I reel backwards, blindly groping, hamming it up, generating animated reactions. They used this funny clip for one of the promo features. I am the money-maker. I am a goldmine. Emerging from the fog, I am endearingly dishevelled. 

Me now would have demanded five. One imperious flick of my freshly frazzled head to command the waiting band of hair and makeup wizards, who were in fact mine to command. Instead, I threw my empty, tousled head back and laughed. Giddily grabbed at my guide and made some vacant gabbled girly comment that again, won me thumbs-up from behind the camera. Success.  

Somebody is having a baby in the house behind us. I crouch in the front yard with Gayatri’s mother. Gayatri wails.  

‘Ok, let’s get this one rolling. Whenever you’re ready, Laila.’ 

My lines. ‘We’ve come today to visit the Kapoors. Just over there now,’ I point, ‘Their eldest daughter is in the early stages of labour with her first baby. The very first grandchild of the family who will make Mrs. Kapoor here a Nani,’ I beam, ‘We are honoured to be a part of this special time with you.’ 

‘Sorry just one more time please, Laila! See if you can get her to smile. And be a bit,’ Dan pauses and flaps his hands, struggling to articulate exactly what he wants from us, ‘Bigger if we could?’ he blurts. 

We go again. Inside, Gayatri is really crying now. The midwife’s assistant comes hurrying out to rinse and refill her water canister. I address her in hushed tones, but not so hushed that they can’t be picked up by Phil’s dangling overhead mic. ‘How are we doing in there?’ I over-enunciate. She gives us a distracted smile and small side to side movement of her head. We’re taking this for assured good news because Dan’s hand is moving me along. 

‘We’re very privileged to be led today by Mrs. Kapoor as she shows us how to make the traditional healing food that has been used for centuries in this part of the world to,’ I sit up straight and puff out my pecs theatrically, ‘Bolster new mothers. Nourish them holistically in the postpartum period. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Kapoor?’  

Mrs. Kapoor is at work. She pounds and pulverises a pick’n’mix of whole spices. I’m peering over her old shoulder with annoying persistence. Hanging in a gnat-like fashion, ready to drain Mrs. Kapoor of all the things she knows about panjiri and leave her looking limply into our lenses. Watching now, I’m sure I can see her inching away from my warm breath and incessant quizzing that plague her droopy, put upon ears. Maybe they weren’t even droopy at all until I arrived. Maybe she had the most beautiful and perky sweet little snail’s shell ears until that very morning. 

‘Now, I’m going to try my best here,’ I titter, ‘To translate,’ peals of laughter, and I can’t tell why, and it is absolutely inappropriate, and inside Gayatri still sobs, and I can’t stop but Charlotte’s eyes are letting me know I’m giving her something. Mrs. Kapoor explains her ingredients and I play to the camera. Prattle away, taking stabs at translations and flattering Mrs. Kapoor’s skill to the point of exhaustion. 

‘Make it sound a bit muddled here, Laila. Like you’re trying your hardest, but communication is difficult,’ Charlotte calls out to me. 

‘Oh! My Hindi is terrible!’ I simper for her. It is not. My Gujarati is terrible. My Southern tongues are non-existent. My Hindi-Urdu-Punjabi is actually rather good. But this hits the mark, and Charlotte flashes me a double thumbs up.  

The panjiri is made. Our stopping and starting means that we have overstayed. Gayatri’s baby is a little boy. 

The marquee must have had a bit of a leg missing, that or the ground was really quite wonky. Its tarpaulin top strained to reach over the makeshift cooker with its rusty rings and blackened old oil drum standing self-consciously on the concrete underneath. ‘Yeah, no, even better,’ Charlotte is saying, ‘Looks rustic, handmade.’ Two buckets sat beside, one with a leaky hose balanced on its lip, dribbling a juddery, spluttering stream. A little lopsided trestle table had been cranked open and propped up in the centre of this arrangement. On it sat a small sharp knife; a larger tarnished cleaver; a chipped plate, an oval rock the size of a fist in a sturdy stone bowl; a coconut; just-plucked sprigs of mint and coriander; some lethal looking green chillies; and in and around an icebox, various tin containers holding fresh yoghurt salt and sugar cut lemon knobs of ginger. 

Two metres to the right squatted in splendour a state-of-the-art fitted kitchen on a glossy island worktop complete with a working double sink, quadruple burner electric induction hob and gleaming set of free-standing appliances in pastel shades of the rainbow. A bubblegum pink mini fridge perched on one end of the glittering display. All pop-up, all dismantlable, the lightweight surfaces and flatpack panelling had turned up in a truck just that morning. 

Good to go, Charlotte confirmed. We’re good to go. I’m flashing my bestest beam and posing like a cookbook cover behind my brand-new dream kitchen, hands laid flat across the countertop, claiming it for myself and watching it wink back up at me, catching glints and glimmers of the afternoon sun. And action. 

‘Now, we’re going to set ourselves a little challenge here,’ I open, ‘We’ve come to meet Mr. Jonny Kanishka who is our resident chutney champion,’ I extend a cheery, jazz-handed wave towards Mr. Jonny Kanishka. He bares his teeth in a smile. Mutely waggles his fingers back. 

‘Our mission today is to each create a simply scrummy coconut coriander concoction, both of us following the same simple recipe. I’m going to be doing so over here,’ and I spread my hands out wide over my shining worktop, leaning my chest against it in an ungainly hug, ‘And Mr. Jonny Kanishka will be over there, showing us,’ I stop to lift my eyebrows, ‘The real deal.’ 

As always, everyone is hooked as I waltz my way through my piece with Mr. Jonny Kanishka. We go through the steps in unison, I blitz greens in my baby blue blender, he makes his paste with the perfectly palm shaped rock serving as his pestle. I chop chillies with three different knives that stick magnetically to a strip by my sink, making a charade of touching my eyes after this task and getting to try out the spay settings on my taps. Splashing, shrieking, stumbling until I am handed a clean dishcloth by Mr. Jonny Kanishka who pats me on my back, mopping his own eyes dry of the tears of laughter my performance had squeezed. He splits the shell of his coconut with his cleaver and smashes it without hesitation on a little pileup of chipped bricks at the side of the driveway. Catches spilt milk in a cupped hand and slurps it down. I dally with several colourful instruments found in my kitchen’s long double drawers, tapping at the coconut’s pointed top, roughly scraping in circles around its hairy body, pretending to knock politely and holding it to my ear like a telephone. Every action induced a chuckle in Mr. Jonny Kanishka and a subsequent smile from Charlotte Chris Dan Phil, until the Chutney Champion took pity on me again, prised the poor fruit from my scrabbly hands and opened it for me. I copy how he quenched his thirst, and the camera takes a long, slow drink of me – elemental, with cloudy water down my sun-kissed chin. 

Episode three. Still gushing. It is impressive that I hadn’t turned to liquid completely by this point in the series. Sugar solution sliming pinkly around the Golden Triangle. She ought to have melted by now. She ought to have relinquished herself entirely to assuming the suitably sticky form of an ice lolly puddle. Candy coloured and still bubbling around the edges. Still babbling redundant commentary at every ordinary tree grocery store gaggle of grannies taxi rank secondary school that we passed on the last leg of our journey– ‘Our journey through taste and time. Our journey through the sensory overload that is so unique to India.’ Dan’s hand. 

‘Ok, ready Laila? Now’s the moment,’ Charlotte bobs up to egg me on, ‘Let’s go for the big finish.’ I have practiced this. I know exactly what to do. I let my bottom lip waver almost imperceptibly. Willing blood-rush to my brain. Concentrate. Imagine it. It’s happening. The heat in my head gets ready to spill. Saucer sockets begin to pool the big brown eyes that the cameras love so. Debate to leak a droplet. Just one. Have it wetly dangle from a lower lash like a tiny twinkly charm. Dan’s hand gains motion. Slow signing, wrist rolling. Pull it back. Where’s my monologue? It’s coming, I’m coming, ‘Our journey for that I am thankful,’ one more pause, ‘Has taken me back to my ancestral homeland.’ Just the right balance of voice cracking and feigned determined perseverance. 

Too much. Horrible idea. I let the weight of my head hang back and pull on my neck to feel the stretch in the opposite direction. Pull my chin up and in until the same surface stinging arrives again. The tubes inside are taut and I struggle for a swallow that doesn’t satisfy. The outro music washes around the room. Behind-the-scenes stills that I know are currently flashing up around the credits manage to project themselves from memory where dim lamplight filters through the paper skin of my closed lids. I think about lifting my hand to stab at a button, stop the impending onslaught of blooper clips, extra clips, outtakes and bonus footage that lurk, ready to invade my screen at any moment. Too late. Snatches of dialogue find passage through the thick mist that plugs my ears: ‘Exclusive interview…Laila’s take on what really makes the best homestyle curry…Join us on our upcoming adventure…Sparkling sequel series hosted by none other than our rising star who stole the nation’s heart…’  

One by one the muscles in my chest clench so that I can borrow strength to raise my head. Two big blinks and I focus. I am spooning buttered masala sweetcorn and purring appreciation to the vendor beside me on this bustling street corner. I mouth along as TV Laila shouts out her lines, ‘It may be chaos, but it tastes like home!’ The scene transitions. Onto the next. As punishment, I let them play.   

Shaan Anoushka Saggar is a writer presently based in London. She studied Postcolonial Literature and now feels pushed to expand on the South Asian Diaspora writing she has so far encountered. Her aim is to swivel the lens of storytelling with the intent to Other white people, as opposed to non-white people who generally end up being written as lost, lonely, looking for something which they never quite find. She wants to escape the tempting trap of diasporic fiction, whilst examining the trying and enervating intricacies of overstressing overthinking overinflating identity issues within the diaspora.