Anjali Menon
Anjali Menon is a writer and spoken word artist based in Tallinn, Estonia. She holds a
Master’s degree in English Language and Literature, with a strong focus on translating oral folk songs from her mother tongue, Malayalam, into English. Anjali currently travels across Europe with her poetry collections, performing spoken word sets at slams and local gigs. She also curates intimate poetry and music gatherings, guided by a deep belief in the transformative power of artistic communities.​
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HOW TO EAT LIKE YOU BELONG​
I. The Velvet Trap
Sitting at the chandelier-lit table, I look down: a silk napkin, too fine for my thrifted skirt, outshining my entire black ensemble. A single stain on that royal cloth could spiral me
into panic.
I glance sideways. Colleagues dressed in black are discussing wines that shimmer identically in their glasses. Their voices are smooth, their laughs synchronized. I’m an outlier pretending to round off their curve. I don’t even understand the joke, but I laugh anyway. I’m okay. I’m trying.
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II. The Art of Imitation
“Do you taste the aftertaste, lingering on the back of your tongue?” asks my boss.
“Yes,” I lie. “The back of my tongue, yes, I feel it.”
I’m tired of wine. Tired of swirling, hoping not to spill.
People are skipping levels across tables, camouflaging strategies, planting promotions.
I’m perspiring under the aircon. I’m new to this, new to this job, new to this country.
I’m starving.
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III. Ghosts in the Grains
After toasts and roasts, we progress to actual food. A glimmer of rice catches my hope, something known. Then I see the crab in the center of the table, an unspoken challenge, its claws a threat to decorum, even with the tiny, useless scissors provided.
I grew up in a little coastal town in India, and crabs meant the ultimate party. On Sundays, Grandpa would bring them home, alive. We’d play with them for a while, then kill and curry them when we were bored of games. Later, we’d hammer shells on steel plates, excavating
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the last bit of flesh. A primal joy in the hunt for fresh meat.At home, I knead rice and yogurt with my right hand into a soft slurry, roll them into little balls, add a bit of pickle for the punch, and pop them into my mouth one by one. I’ve never learned to eat pretty.
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IV. The Masquerade Feast
“Oh, your rice is here,” someone says. I shake like I got caught.
I don’t want to feed the stereotype. So, I don’t take the rice.
Instead, I reach for the garlic bread. I don’t know what to do with garlic bread.
I start adding things to my plate things I don’t understand. A spoon of sauce I don’t recognize. Something gelatinous. Something cold. Something stiff. Someone looks at my table and says, “That’s… interesting.”
I carefully avoid the crab. Which is absurd. I love crab. But I don’t know how to eat crab pretty.
V. Hunger in the Hollow Room
I try to eat, but the knife and fork slip through my hands. I can’t hold on. I can’t do this the right way. My food sits untouched.
I sit still, trying to swallow the mess I curated to look like someone else. But my stomach knows, it remembers, it’s ashamed, not of who I am, but who I wanted to be.