Ghazal for Custard Apple
A Poem by Christopher Tang
the first time i ate a custard apple, its soft belly died sweetened
under my tongue and i saw green. you, too, smiled: sweetened
and ripe with joy at a culture smoothing before my teeth. you like to
share. and i love to taste like you. this apple can’t hide, sweetened
with time across ocean mist and dirt-road trucks to arrive at my palate
like some imported, stage-plate starlet. there’s national pride in sweetened
experiences – next, you take me home and your kitchen is this grinning
fridge, unravelling like peeled mango skin; sharp lentils spiced, sweetened.
your tiled floor is a place of life, but i’d pick clean the pomegranate seeds from
the chaat and stay as your blossoming majesty – emerald-eyed with sweetened
curiosity that shimmers with garlic and fresh coriander. you call me to your table –
Christopher, eat – and my bones are warm, in love, full, satisfied, sweetened.
A Statement by Christopher Tang on his process
Originating from Arabic poetry, ghazals measure an ode to something lovely, something spiritual. But within this praise, there always exists a longing; a pang of separation bursting from admirer to the admired.
So when my girlfriend offered me an Indian custard apple (or a ‘sitafal’) for the first time – a fruit I had never tried before – it quickly became a catalyst for exploring her culture and its joys. For me, it became something worth praising, worth longing for. It was new, I was naive; she told me it was delicious and creamy and sweet and I said there was no way on Earth that a fruit could genuinely taste like custard.
But here we are. Good food and a dare to explore will open doors for many – doors that lead to a dinner table, laid and ready for community and family and home – particularly so within Asian culture. Like that first bite into any untasted fruit, that initial step is refreshing and sudden; a moment that propels you into another kitchen, another household, another way of life. It’s funny though, because one person’s house is another’s palace, and it always goes both ways. I suppose that’s the beauty of perspective. There are values, flavours, desires and recipes that unravel before your teeth; pretty words that redesign your fabric of understanding; colours that suddenly look a little brighter, a little bolder.
And, of course, cultures new and old are constantly being discovered, enjoyed and even critiqued. That’s what happens when you let someone into your home – they see it; you hope they learn to love it. But there exists a certain degree of vulnerability within loving and longing. Every person who longs and desires must first be open enough to do so. And although fruits and custard apples grow on all types of trees, we can make our own little guest houses in every culture we’re humble enough to visit. There’s something beautiful about being a guest. There’s vulnerability. And if we were all a bit more open, a little more receptive, I think we’d find new beauties in the trees of our neighbours too.