In my memories, there’s a special moment frozen in time—a picture that holds a lot of words and thoughts. It’s like looking at an old photo in sepia tones. In this picture, my father-in-law, who was really good at cooking, is carefully cleaning dust off puffed rice. His hands, worn from a lifetime of hard work, move with a graceful rhythm, almost like a dance.
While he was doing this, he didn’t know that he was nearing death. In the days before he passed away, an illness cast a dark shadow over him, making it hard for him to breathe comfortably.
Despite this difficult time, there was something strong in him that fought against the darkness. His commitment to cooking, turning simple things into a tasty snack, showed how much he found comfort and purpose in creating things. This was a skill passed down through his family perhaps, reflecting who he was at his core.
The work he did with his hands, making food, now feels like a beautiful memory in our hearts. The way he cleaned the puffed rice became a symbol for life itself—separating moments of happiness from tough times. Each grain of puffed rice whispers about his strong spirit, showing the lasting impact of a man who found joy and purpose in making food for others.
When I think about this journey in cooking, it brings me a sense of comfort in remembering. Even though he’s not physically here, his presence lives on in the smell of roasted rice and the memory of his hands working in the kitchen. In that space where flavors mix and love happens, he’s both lost and found—a protector of our cooking traditions, a master of everyday things, forever stirring the pot of remembrance.
As I continue to ponder this culinary journey, the traces of his presence linger in unexpected corners. The kitchen, once a lively sanctuary where he cooked piping hot vadas and podis , now holds a quiet tune of his absence. However, amidst the comforting scent of roasted rice and the soft hum of the stove, his spirit is still very much alive.
In those moments when the air carries the fragrant dance of spices, it feels like he is there—like a silent guardian. The warmth of the kitchen, filled with the love he poured into every dish, serves as a reassuring reminder of the enduring connections forged during shared meals.
As we gather in the kitchen every month for him to make his favorites, I find comfort in the continuation of his legacy. The techniques for the everyday mundane tasks he honed, are more than just traditions—they are cherished links to our past.
In the intricate fabric of our daily lives, his absence is woven into the very essence of our existence. So, within the kitchen’s embrace, where pots gently simmer and memories come to life, he endures—a cherished chapter in our shared history. The dance of loss and rediscovery unfolds harmoniously, a poignant reminder that love, much like the perfect recipe, withstands the test of time, leaving an indelible mark on the canvas of our lives.
So beautifully written Pratibha….. ‘Forever stirring the pot of remembrance.’ 😭