I sprinkle the garam masala into the pot that already contains the coconut milk. A cacophony of sizzles greets my ears as it makes contact with the scalding surface of the oil. The kitchen is filled with the smell of cooking and the whistling of the cooker on the stove. My mother watches over me with a slight tilt of her face as she makes sure I don’t burn myself or ruin dinner. The kitchen is still her domain; as far as I’m concerned, it always will be.
When I was five, I had to bring in a dessert to school for an event. The day before the event, my mother and I sat on the floor in the kitchen of our old flat and crushed marie biscuits in a bag. As a first-grader, nothing thrilled me more than the thought of getting to school with a lunch box full of chocolate fudge that I had spent all day preparing. I like feeding people I love.
That was probably my first ever experience of cooking. Although what I had made couldn’t exactly be classified as cooking, I was so proud of my creation. I placed my box of fudge on the table of food and waited for everyone to take some. I know it’s common courtesy for a teacher to say that they liked something that their five-year-old student made, but the way I like to remember it, my teacher actually loved my fudge. I think she even brought it up at the parent-teacher meeting that year.
After that, I began sitting on the kitchen platform whenever anyone at home cooked anything, be it my mom’s aloo, my father’s biryani, or Sunanda aunty’s brinjal. I think I picked up on the little things that they did in the kitchen. Avoiding chopping off the end of the onion for minimal tears, stirring most things so vigorously that your arm feels like it might fall off, and not using the one knife my mother kept at the back of the drawer because nine out of ten times using it resulted in an injury. Soon enough, I was a permanent part of the kitchen- pressing down on fresh parathas and complaining about there being too many people around the stove.
I was eventually introduced to the cookbook that my mother kept underneath our oven. The pages were yellowed and slightly tattered from use. In this book was every recipe my mother called hers. All the food I grew up eating and appreciating. My parents taught me everything I know about cooking. My mother always ensured everyone in the house was well-fed, and even when we were leaving for school or work, she’d pack bags of food for us to take with us. She taught me how to fry an egg, chop a tomato, and make the perfect gravy base. But she always adds a little something to her dishes that makes them infinitely better, something you could never find in a store or in a recipe online. And although she does have her holy grail book of recipes, she barely ever follows it; always substituting random ingredients to see how the dish would turn out. She taught me how to figure out what flavours go together and how you can always put ghee in things to make them taste better. Consistency isn’t always everything.
My father, on the other hand, follows recipes to the tee. He adds just the right amount of everything, even if we have to eat the same food for three meals because of the sheer quantity. He taught me that although cooking is a tedious process, it is just as relaxing and rewarding (perhaps even more) as reading a book or just lying in bed. He taught me how to convert my love for people and things into food and also curated the perfect playlist to listen to while we cleaned up.
Now, as someone my parents somewhat trust not to burn myself and the entire kitchen down, I sometimes like to prepare meals. I made them some noodle soup the other day. I didn’t let them walk into the kitchen even once and I even cleaned up. They liked it. It feels a bit foreign sometimes, cooking meals for the people who fed you and sculpted you into who you are today, but it feels good. It feels familiar. And it really helps if the food is good too.
Chop up some coriander and sprinkle with love to serve.