Aunt Selvi’s Guide to Preserving Grudges and Other Delicacies
June 26. Forgiveness Day and World Refrigeration Day walk in like mismatched twins. One says, “Let it go, kanna,” and the other says, “Keep it fresh.” Somewhere between a sigh and a soft idli, I, Aunt Selvi, sit in my verandah chair, thinking about whether grudges have freezer burn.
Uncle Srini was the first to arrive, of course. You know him—the man who once forgave his brother-in-law in 1997 but never mentioned it to anyone, including the fellow himself.
“I keep my forgiveness next to the frozen samosas,” he declared, swirling his filter coffee with great purpose.
“Why waste a perfectly good grudge by serving it too soon?”
I raised an eyebrow. He continued, like he was unveiling Tupperware secrets.
“Forgiveness is like mango pickle, Selvi. Must ferment. Mature. You can’t just give it out raw. Might cause indigestion.”
That’s Uncle Srini for you. Philosopher of the petty. Guru of grudges. Everyone in the circle nodded like he’d quoted the Gita. No one questioned the logic. In this age of Instagram closure and self-care revenge, forgiveness has become vintage stock—best kept chilled until emotionally profitable.
People treat their pain like heirlooms now.
“I haven’t spoken to her in years—but I almost forgive her once a year.”
“What stopped you?”
“Nothing. I just like the suspense.”
Then, with all the drama of a monsoon cloud, enters Adhikaprasangi Sundari—who, by her own Twitter bio, is “Founder-Chairperson of Cooling Emotions Consortium.”
She clicked her tiffin box open on the table like it was a TED Talk.
“Refrigeration,” she began, “is civilization’s way of delaying disasters. Without the fridge, we’d be impulsive beasts with expired yogurt and wounded pride!”
She pointed her stainless steel spoon at us like it held ancient truth.
“Think about it. The humble fridge doesn’t just preserve food. It postpones arguments. How many fights have been averted because someone went to get a cold glass of water?”
She had a point. My niece Divya once stormed out mid-fight, opened the fridge, and forgot why she was angry. She came back with buttermilk and forgiveness—both chilled, both temporary.
Adhikaprasangi stood up now, arms raised like a priestess of pathos.
“We cool not just cutlets and kulfis, but confrontations! The cold shoulder? A form of emotional refrigeration! Look around. We are deep-freezing our feelings. Stacking our apologies next to old wedding cake and disappointment.”
By now, the uncle in the corner had tears in his eyes. Either from laughter or repressed emotion. Hard to say.
And just when we thought the day couldn’t get more dramatic, our neighborhood Vidushakan Vasu—you know the one, with three WhatsApp groups and no job—slid in, sipping pickle juice from a coffee mug.
“To every ‘I forgive you’ stored next to the frozen peas,
and every family WhatsApp message that says nothing but screams everything—
Long live cold storage!
Our true temple of unspoken feelings!”
We laughed. Too loud. Too long. The kind of laughter that comes when you know the joke’s on you, but it still feels good to laugh anyway.
Forgiveness, it turns out, isn’t always warm. Sometimes it’s stiff from disuse. Sometimes it smells a bit…off. And sometimes, it’s been kept so long we’re not sure if it’s still safe to consume.
But here’s what I’ve learned, my dears:
If we never open the fridge, we’ll never know what’s still edible—and what’s just taking up space.
So this June 26, I raised a steel tumbler of hot jeera water and made a little vow:
To thaw a few old leftovers.
Not to eat them. Just to look.
To sniff the memory. See if it still holds bitterness or just… nostalgia.
Because in the end, somewhere between forgiving and forgetting, there’s just checking the shelf life of what we once held dear.
🧊 Aunt Selvi’s Simple Ritual: Defrosting Grudges the South Indian Way
- Write it down – on a torn bit of paper from your old Horlicks notebook. That fight. That forgotten apology. That bitter line you can still recite.
- Tuck it into the freezer – behind the Mysorepak you’ve been ignoring. Let it sit a day or two.
- Then make a cup of hot Rasam. Pull out the paper. Read it once.
- Burn it in your agni spoon. Whisper:
“I keep the memory. But not the marinade.”
Let the ash settle under your tulsi plant.
Uncle Srini approved. Adhikaprasangi offered to make laminated fridge magnets. And Vidushakan Vasu? He’s writing a musical about it.
So here we are.
Forgiveness. Refrigeration. And a reminder:
Some things are better served warm. Even if they’ve been frozen for years.
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