Whenever I felt “something” coming on, that tummy rumble or slight fever, I nipped into a Rameswaram restaurant and ordered a stainless steel cup of rasam.
With my feet planted on the sandy floor, I sat on a wooden bench and drank the fiery liquid while a waiter gawked in amazement at how I could down the spicy brew. Rasam always did the trick. A fever vanished. The hint of dysentery subsided.
That magical combination of spices worked so well, that years later, when my daughters were sick, they’d be thankful when I made rasam. Mine wasn’t blended the way it was in India, but the taste was the same, and it worked better than any cough syrup.