Casino Woman/Tamil Girl by Sumitra Singam
How does a girl become a woman? In Sumitra Singam’s coming-of-age flash fiction “Casino Woman/Tamil Girl,” the titular Girl is captivated by a white woman she sees on TV while her family prepares for a mourning ritual. The family’s gendered practices divide its children—boys play outside; girls help in the kitchen—in a way the girl finds debilitating but doesn’t know how to resist. The white “Casino Woman” seems to represent a more powerful path of womanhood than those offered by her mother and grandmother. But the reader knows this seeming power, based solely on the woman’s sexuality, offers another kind of gendered trap.
What makes this story memorable is its skillful use of sensory detail and description, often drawn from memories of the author’s own childhood. We hear the clacking of the roulette balls, we feel the woman’s satin dress slide down her legs. We see the priest’s hands as he completes the rituals. And we smell and want to taste the food, about which Singam writes: “Food and cooking…are so much a part of her DNA (and mine)…I was an interpreter of sorts, and I said the quiet bit out loud.” —CRAFT
Paati has put the TV on in the back room to keep us kids out of the way of the prayers. On the veranda, Appa sits shirtless before the homam fire chanting in Sanskrit after the priest. An ancient ritual. For his father, grandfather, great-grandfather and all the males in a long line to Sage Atreya himself.
The TV shows my cousins and me an aerial shot of jewelled, winking buildings, a fountain pushing into the backlit sky. Then, an interior with green baize tables, white people in tuxedos and gowns gathered around a spinning roulette wheel. A woman blows on a tiny white ball for good luck. Her nipples show through satin the colour of lust. The croupier launches the ball into the roulette wheel with a clackety-clack. The woman flicks her golden hair, stealths a magnet under the table, and the ball lands on twenty-six. The man she is with—handsome in a suit and tie, brown hair slicked back—smirks, gathering a stack of chips towards him. In their hotel room, he pulls her in for a kiss, a slab of pink tongue visible side-on, her dress waterfalling to the floor revealing long, white legs.
“Chchi! Karmam!” Paati switches off the TV. My male cousins complain, beg. She tells them to go out and play. Me, she pulls into the kitchen where Paati and Amma are grinding coconut, sharp cumin, sweet and earthy coriander, pungent chili. There is an alchemy of salt, heat, sour. This is also ancient. The whirr of the mixer-grinder combines with the drone of Sanskrit mantras, with the catcalls of my cousins playing soccer in the backyard. Paati swirls her morning kaapi in her davara, tilts it into her mouth without touching it to her lips. I think of olives bobbing in V-shaped glasses, red kisses on the rims.
I have a sweet sesame ball in my hand, and I blow on it like the woman did. Paati slaps my hand. “Are you a vellakari on TV or a nice Tamil girl?” she asks. We’re not allowed to taste anything until our ancestors have eaten. I am in a heavy silk paavadai, the blouse gathering tightly at my collar, sweat pooling in my lower back. I want to know about the woman’s dress that slinks with her, that slides off so easily. I want to know about spinning a ball and winning money. Paati sets a chopping board in front of me with a clatter, a pile of okra on it. I chop, the slimy guts of the okra viscid on my fingers. Paati is making horn banana chips—the banana mandolin-sliced straight into the roiling oil which froths in annoyance as Paati adds salt water.
I imagine Casino Woman in a hotel bed, smooth cotton sheets under her. In the morning, a tray of juice, coffee, pastries will be brought in and she will use the tips of her soft fingers to tear off pieces to put in her pink mouth.
The priest calls us in for a blessing. He says “Svāhā” with every petal he puts into the homam, his fingers themselves opening like buds. Appa, Amma, Paati, cousins all crowd around the silver platter, everyone reaching in to touch it. I can only fit the tip of my index finger on it. I imagine Casino Woman’s hand on the roulette ball. Her nails—long and bloody like some predator. I bow my head for the priest’s blessing, and as I feel the drops of holy water on my crown, I pucker my lips and blow.
SUMITRA SINGAM is a queer, neurodiverse Malaysian-Indian-Australian coconut who writes in Naarm/Melbourne. Her work has been published widely, nominated for a number of Best Of anthologies, and was selected for Best Small Fictions 2025. She works as a psychiatrist and trauma therapist and runs workshops on how to write trauma safely, as well as the Yeah Nah reading series. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). Find her on Bluesky @pleomorphic2.
Featured image by Jonathan Petersson, courtesy of Unsplash.
