The Feast

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 2024

The Feast

The Dinner Table Throne

I learned early on that the dinner table was not just a place to eat—it was a battleground of rules, expectations, and invisible tripwires waiting to be set off. My mother and stepfather ruled over mealtimes with quiet but suffocating authority, where every movement was scrutinized, every misplaced utensil a sign of failure. Sit up straight. Chew with your mouth closed. Use your fork, not your fingers. The list of unspoken laws was endless, and breaking even one could bring down their silent, simmering disapproval.

And then there was that night—the night the table flipped.

We had barely started eating when my older brother made a fatal mistake. He reached out—not far, not dramatically—just enough to graze a single green pea with his finger. Maybe he was distracted, maybe he was testing limits, or maybe, just maybe, he had simply forgotten the rules. But no, he knew the rules. The one pea was trembling on the fork. How could this nine-year old boy get that pea into his mouth without it falling off the fork?  He touched it.

But in our house, there was no forgetting. A sharp kick under the table was the reminder.

My stepfather’s eyes locked onto him, and for a second, everything froze. A single moment of stillness, the kind that happens just before a predator strikes. Then, with a sudden, violent force, dad flipped the entire table with a powerful kick from his steel-toed boot. My brother had moved his knee to avoid that kick that he knew was coming. Plates crashed to the floor, silverware clattered like falling swords, and food scattered in every direction. My mother gasped, my brother pushed back in his chair, and I sat there, gripping my fork, not daring to move.

The room was silent, except for the sound of a lone, rolling pea making its slow escape across the tile floor.

My stepfather stormed up off his chair, leaving us in the wreckage of what was once dinner. My mother, as always, moved quickly to clean up the mess, not saying a word. And we—my brother and I—just sat there, staring at the overturned dishes, the splattered food, the absurdity of it all.  What was worse was the kerosene lamp that lit the table.  The lamp chimney broke, but the glass base full of kerosine only cracked. We could have gone up in a blast of blazing fire. The kitchen was tiny with no possibility of escape.

I remember thinking, it was just a pea. A single, harmless pea.

But it was not about the food. It never was. It was about control. The dinner table was a throne, and any breach of its rigid order was a challenge to authority. The table flip was not a punishment—it was a demonstration, a reminder that we were always being watched, always being corrected, always at risk of sudden chaos.

Years later, I still flinch when someone slams their hand on a table too hard. I still feel that tightening in my stomach when a fork clinks against a plate too loudly. But I also remember that rolling pea, that tiny, rebellious thing that escaped the chaos and found its own path across the floor.

And in some strange way, I think we did too.

That moment has stayed with me, and it’s the reason for my featured painting this week: The Feast.

Symbolic Elements and Visual Design

That experience lingers in my mind when I look at my painting, "The Feast." The intertwining nagas are locked in an intricate ritual—eating together, sharing the same meal, yet caught in an unspoken tension. They are not at war, yet they are not at peace. Their elongated bodies coil and weave through the composition, suggesting a deep entanglement, much like the relationships we form around the dinner table.

At the center of it all is an asparagus, held in the jaws of the black naga. A seemingly simple object, yet it becomes a symbol of sustenance, power, and control. Just like that tiny pea that caused an uproar at my childhood table, the asparagus here is more than food—it is a catalyst, a test, a focal point around which dynamics unfold.

Each naga carries its own personality: the black one, looming and dominant, watches with split eyes—one looking ahead, one looking back. The blue one grins, amused or perhaps indifferent. The red nagas, their movements slightly restrained, still partake in the feast, their expressions unreadable. The entire scene vibrates with an uneasy balance, a moment stretched between harmony and conflict.

The yellow bursts in the background feel almost divine, as if some unseen force is illuminating the moment. Is it an ordinary meal, or a cosmic ritual? A gathering of kin, or a battle of wills?

Techniques

The use of watercolor lends a softness to the otherwise intense scene. The pigments bleed into one another, mirroring the way relationships—especially ones forged in strict households—can blur the line between love and control, authority and protection. The contrast between the dark black naga and the softer pastels of the others draws the eye to the hierarchy within the image, just as the clamped red naga suggests restriction, compliance, or reluctant participation.

The asparagus itself, rendered with delicate attention to texture, becomes almost absurd in its role as the center of attention. How many times have we given weight to something so small? A tiny rule, an insignificant gesture—yet, in the wrong moment, under the wrong eyes, it can flip the entire table.

Emotional Impact

There is something both primal and ritualistic in this painting. It speaks of hunger—not just for food, but for control, for structure, for understanding. It evokes the strange dance of family dynamics, of shared meals that are supposed to bring people together but sometimes serve as arenas of silent tension.

Looking at this piece, I feel the same sensation I had all those years ago—the weight of unspoken expectations, the tightness in my chest, the feeling of being watched. But I also feel something else: a kind of catharsis. The nagas are bound together, but they are not broken. They eat, they move, they continue.

Maybe, in some way, that’s all any of us can do.

Life Lesson

Eating together is one of the oldest human rituals. It is meant to nourish not just the body, but the bonds between us. And yet, the table can be a place of power, hierarchy, and control just as much as it can be a place of warmth.

This painting reminds me that even in shared spaces, there is tension. Even in rituals meant to bring us together, there are invisible rules. But just as food fuels us, so too does rebellion—the small, simple acts of defiance, like touching a single pea with your finger, like questioning authority, like refusing to be consumed by the roles others assign to us.

It brings to mind something Indira Gandhi once said:
"You must learn to be still in the midst of activity and to be vibrantly alive in repose."

As a child at that dinner table, I learned to sit still, to follow the rules, to avoid disruption. But stillness was not peace—it was survival. Only later did I understand that real power comes from knowing when to endure and when to resist, when to remain quiet and when to push back. The tension of the feast, whether among nagas or family members, is not just about hierarchy—it’s about navigating these choices.

In the end, we choose how much power we give to these moments. We decide whether we remain trapped in the cycle, or whether, like that lone pea rolling across the floor, we find our own way forward.

Fifty years later, a childhood friend said to my girlfriend, “Those boys were not happy boys, but they were much admired for their accomplishments.”

Or, perhaps, like the nagas in this piece—we simply kept eating.