The Taste of Thatiaaku: Why Kallu Belongs in a Leaf, Not a Glass
The Morning Sap: Remembering Toddy, Leaf Cups, and the Trees of Telangana
By Shashi Bellamkonda |
If you look at the glass sitting on my table today, you might mistake it for watered-down milk or perhaps coconut water. But lean closer, and the nose tells a different story. It smells of yeast, of wet earth, and of a sourness that is alive. This is Kallu—toddy—the fermented sap of the palm tree.
Drinking it from a glass feels almost too civilized, too removed. In my memory, the taste of toddy is inextricably linked to the rough, fibrous texture of a folded leaf against my lips and the morning sun hitting the red dust of a Telangana village.
The Morning Ritual
In the cities, alcohol is often hidden away, something for the evening shadows. But in the village of my childhood, it was a morning affair, open and unashamed. My grandfather would take us out early, walking toward the clusters of Palmyra or Silver Date palms standing tall against the sky.
We weren't going to a bar. We were going to the source. We waited at the base of the trees for the tapper—usually from the Goud community in Telangana—to descend. These men were acrobats of the highest order, climbing vertical trunks with nothing but a rope and strength, bringing down the clay pots that had spent the night catching the dripping sap.
The Vessel Matters: Modigaakku and Thatiaaku
There were no glasses in the fields. Customers—farmers, elders, and the occasional curious grandchild—would kneel or squat on the ground. The tapper didn't pour the precious liquid into plastic or glass; he poured it into a Modigaakku or Thatiaaku.
Thatiaaku refers to the leaf of the Palmyra tree itself, skillfully folded into a cup. Modigaakku (leaves of the Flame of the Forest tree) were also used to fashion makeshift vessels. This wasn't just eco-friendly before the term existed; it was functional. The leaves were abundant, free, and disposable in the truest sense—returning to the earth immediately after use.
Grandpa would let us kids have a taste. It was fizzy, sweet, and pungent all at once. It wasn't about "drinking" in the modern sense; it was about tasting the land. Other times, the pots were delivered straight to our ancestral house, served alongside a spicy lunch to the elders. The heat of the chilies and the cooling, yeasty tang of the toddy were a marriage made in culinary heaven.
The Stigma of the "Sarai Kadai"
As I grew older and moved between cities, the context of toddy shifted. In Chennai, specifically in Jafferkhanpet, my bus stop was universally known as "Sarai Kadai" (The Arrack/Toddy Shop). I never went inside. In the urban context, the open field was replaced by dark rooms, and the appreciation of nature was replaced by a stigma of vice.
It’s a strange dichotomy. In the village, toddy is agricultural produce. In the city, it’s often relegated to the margins, associated with the working class and looked down upon by those sipping imported scotch. Yet, the scotch has preservatives and traveled thousands of miles. The toddy was tapped two hours ago from a tree down the road.
A Kerala Reminder
On our recent vacation in Kerala, the memory came rushing back. We saw the toddy being tapped again—the same agile climb, the same pots. It was a reminder that despite the industrialization of alcohol, these ancient foodways persist.
Drinking it today, even from a glass, I miss the leaf. I miss the smell of the thatiaaku, green and fibrous, mixing with the scent of the ferment. That was the real flavor of Telangana.
Carry On Curry Notes
- Freshness is key: Authentic toddy has a shelf life of fewer than 24 hours. If you buy it bottled in a supermarket, you aren't tasting the real thing.
- The Vessel: If you ever get the chance to drink it from a leaf cup in a rural setting, take it. The sensory experience is vastly superior to glass.
- Labor: Next time you see a palm tree, imagine climbing it without a ladder. Respect the tapper.
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