There is an expression my late father would use: “Avan enna periya pistava?” Literal translation: “Is he a big pista?” Pista, in colloquial Tamil, means ‘don’ or ‘big shot’. A powerful person. Appa had a rebellious streak. He used to say, “There are two kinds of people. Pistas (pistachios) and cockroaches. Pistas are few but look after each other. The cockroaches are many but are divided. Cockroaches are more loyal to one or the other pista than to other cockroaches. That’s why pistas will always rule over cockroaches.” Growing up in Chennai, that was my only sense of the word ‘pista’.
After I moved to Delhi as a teenager, my understanding of ‘pista’ expanded. Every year, around Diwali, a stream of visitors would come home to meet Appa, bearing packages of nuts they insisted on calling ‘dry fruits’. These typically had a mix of walnuts, almonds, cashew, raisins, and a shelled nut called ‘pista’.
A nutty rivalry
Over the years, I developed a tremendous appetite for roasted cashews. I ritualistically gorged myself on them when I needed comfort food. But recently, it was brought to my notice that my health, like our economy, is going down the tube and for much the same reasons: neglect, idiotic choices. My mindless snacking — especially the vast quantities of cashew I down — was ruining my gut.
“If you love nuts so much,” my gastroenterologist said, “switch to pista.”
“Why is pista better than kaju?”
“Less carbs, higher protein, more fibre,” he said. “Also, having to shell each pista will slow you down, reduce overall consumption.”
Thanks to 10-minute delivery, three packets of pista were waiting for me when I got back from the gastro visit. I took Katta’s ex-cookie jar and made it my pista jar.
Joys of ‘laughing’
The gastro was right. The shelling added considerable friction to my ease of snacking. Nonetheless, transitioning from cashews to pistas proved easier than expected. My favourite were the ‘laughing’ pistas that revealed a bit of the kernel. They were easy to open. But there were always a few that wouldn’t open up no matter what. When I tried breaking the shell with a hammer, my desk cracked, not the pistas. Those were some tough nuts.
For five days after the switch, all went well. My calorie count dropped. I slept better. On the sixth day, as I dipped my fingers into the pista jar, all I came up with were empty shells. The jar was still half-full. I emptied it on the floor and patiently sifted through hundreds of pistas. All turned out to be hollow shells. Not one kernel. Somebody had polished off my pistas and put the empty shells back in the jar. I was incensed. Who would do such an evil thing? Can’t a man even eat pistas in peace in this country anymore?
I confronted Katta. He denied any wrongdoing.
“Who else could have done it?” I thundered.
“Ask grandma,” he said.
My mother was diabetic. She had a weakness for every kind of nut, including the Big One. But she, too, denied “touching” my pistas.
“Are you nuts?” she cried, indignant. “I don’t even go to your study.”
“But someone’s been eating my pistas,” I said.
“Ask his mother,” my mother said, nodding at Katta.
The fault in our stars
That evening, I politely ventured to ask Wife. “Do you, by any chance, happen to know if anyone’s been eating my pistas?”
“Yes. I had a few.”
“You did?” I was speechless. “And the shells? Instead of dumping them in the waste basket, you put them back in my jar? You did that?”
“The waste basket on your desk is perpetually overflowing,” she said. “I’ve been telling you to empty them for years now. Anyway, I don’t litter. So, I put the shells in the only container available on your table.”
I stood there marvelling at how, magically, the whole thing had become my fault. I knew better than to prolong this conversation. So, I started hiding my pista jar. The only problem: I don’t always remember to hide it after snacking. When I don’t, the next time I open it, I find only empty shells.
Sometimes, my fingers land on a kind-looking pista, its mouth parted ever so slightly, as if it’s about to tell you it’s Mann ki Baat. You look at its face, and you’re convinced there’s a juicy kernel tucked away inside. You eagerly prise it open. But all you find is dust. It’s these duplicitous pistas that make me really angry. But it’s a pista. Nothing I can do about it. I am just a cockroach.
The author of this satire is Social Affairs Editor, The Hindu.
Published – May 20, 2026 11:27 pm IST
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