It was a morning after many that I woke up to something that wasn’t the blaring sound of my alarm, something much more pleasant. Like every other Sunday, the melodious tunes of Rabindrasangeet were omnipresent in the apartment. Surely, that’s not what woke me up, my body had grown accustomed to that. It was something else. After a few moments, the whistle of the pressure cooker acted as a reminder. The aroma of the marinated and spiced meat, cooking away slowly, tickled my nose once again, the same aroma that ended my peaceful slumber. The fragrance left a hypnotising trail I couldn’t help but follow. It led me to the kitchen, the kitchen that now felt like a warm embrace on a cold December morning. My mother’s knife skills were fascinating, it almost brought tears to my eyes (I wonder how long I stood there staring at her dice onions). Once she noticed that I, her dishevelled bed-headed daughter, had invaded her sacred space, she shunned me to my room. Apparently, I was supposed to wake up for breakfast? Like that’s a thing. Anyway, thinking of lunch made me giddy like a lovestruck teenager; my mother’s taunts sounded more like white noise at that moment.
The cuckoo clock announced the time in its unique, yet annoying, fashion; it was 2 PM. Almost synchronous to the cuckoo, my stomach grumbled twice. I couldn’t wait any longer. The regret of choosing those extra minutes of sleep over breakfast was nagging my conscience now. However, the anticipation of the best Sunday meal ever kept me going.
“It’s ready,” my mother announced. The time had come.
I watched as my mother placed the crockpot at the centre of the oakwood tabletop. I admired the auburn-coloured curry for a few seconds to honour the creation of, what I would like to call, the most delectable love potion. While my brain told me to wait for my parents to join me at the table, my stomach was having a tough time being patient, almost as if it had a mind of its own. Before the grumbling could get any louder, my parents sat down and I started tearing the succulent pieces of meat, savouring each bite, and feeling each and every spice explode symphonically in my mouth. It wasn’t as decadent as I had hyped it up to be; it was better. I cursed my finite appetite as I licked my fingers, wishing I could eat more, forever and ever, non-stop. Alas, the joyous event of lunch had finally come to an end. I could feel the serotonin rush— the happiness followed by an invincible surge of drowsiness. It was a calling from my Bengali ancestors, signalling my body to settle into a blissful afternoon siesta, or as they would say, bhaat-ghoom (literally, rice-sleep).
Who was I to resist the inevitable nap? I laid my head on the pillow and fell into the most magnificent food coma of my life, dreaming of the Kosha Mangsho I just devoured.