Saaptiya? And Other Little Things

I’ve been back in Chennai for a couple of weeks now, and one of the things I’ve enjoyed is hearing the familiar saaptiya? (Have you eaten?) again. It’s a question I’ve heard countless times growing up, from family, relatives, and just about anyone who knows me.

It’s a funny question when you think about it. Sometimes the person asking doesn’t particularly need an answer. It’s a greeting, a check-in, and an expression of care, all wrapped into one small question. Growing up, it was simply part of everyday life, along with the insistence that anyone visiting should have something to eat, even if they’d already said no.

I never gave these things much thought growing up. At a wedding recently, I found myself explaining some of these everyday expressions and gestures to the bride, who is Australian. Trying to put them into words made me notice how many had followed me into life away from Chennai.

I love cooking for people. Not necessarily hosting elaborate dinner parties, but inviting a friend or two over and making something I think they’ll enjoy. Sometimes that’s a biryani, other times an elaborate dessert I’ve spent far too much time experimenting with. I enjoy the process, but more than anything, I enjoy sharing the result.

A little while ago, I baked four different kinds of cookies for the birthday of a barista at my regular café in Rotterdam. It was a small gesture for someone who’d become a familiar part of my mornings. I didn’t have to do it, of course, but I wanted to.

Perhaps that’s my own version of saaptiya? It’s not always about the food. Sometimes making something for someone is simply a way of saying that you appreciate them.

Another thing I’ve noticed being back in Chennai is how naturally the word anna slips into conversations. Literally meaning “older brother,” it’s used to address everyone from a shopkeeper to an auto driver. When I tell an auto driver where I’m going, anna comes out before the destination. We don’t know each other’s names, but the conversation already feels a little less anonymous.

In Rotterdam, I’ve come to appreciate a similar kind of familiarity in my everyday routines. There’s my regular café, where a quick stop for coffee can turn into a conversation with the barista, familiar faces at the gym, and people I regularly meet through cycling. These aren’t necessarily close friendships, nor do they need to be. But they make the city feel a little more like home.

Then there’s poitu varen, roughly translating to “I’ll go and come back.” It’s a common way of saying goodbye in Tamil, and I’ve always liked that it doesn’t quite sound like an ending.

I’ve noticed that I instinctively say “see you” or “see you soon” rather than “goodbye.” I can’t say for certain that one comes from the other, but I enjoy the similarity. There’s something nice about leaving with the possibility of another meeting, even if you don’t know when that might be.

After years on the West Coast of the United States and in Rotterdam, being back in Chennai has made me notice what I carried away: a question about food, a familiar word for a stranger, a way of leaving that makes room for another hello. None of these felt like lessons growing up. They were simply part of the day, and now I find them in the life I’ve built elsewhere.

Poitu varen.