Cooking: A Journey Through Memories and Flavors

In November 2021, while grabbing a quick snack at work in the outskirts of Delhi, I took a bite of hot, crispy jalebi. The sweet syrup filled my mouth, and before I knew it, tears welled in my eyes. It was a reflex I couldn’t control. This simple dessert was more than just a treat; it was a way to connect with my past. Growing up, my father would bring back warm jalebis from the canteen of the government hospital where he worked. Those golden twists of sweetness filled our home with joy.

But life took a sharp turn in August 2016 when my father passed away suddenly. Losing him felt like cutting a thread that had held my life together. I was left feeling lost and unsure of my identity. The days following his death were a blur, like being cast adrift in a vast ocean without a compass. My father was a quiet man, someone who easily blended into the background. Though I knew the facts about his life—he was a doctor, an only child, and married young—I often wondered about the parts of him that remained hidden. What were his favorite things? What made him laugh? Did he have a favorite song? As I tried to recall these details, doubts crept in.

Confronted with the reality of his absence, I went through a period where I felt I had to shed layers of grief to find myself again. About a year after his death, I began to write about my feelings. This endeavor was not just about expressing sorrow; it became a way to explore my grief. I wanted to document every emotional wave that hit me.

“Grief feels like an endless ocean,” I wrote in my notes. “Sometimes, I feel unmoored.” I also noted how hard it was to remember his voice, a memory that would fade with time. Through my writing, I discovered that grief has no timeline; it springs up when we least expect it, often during the simple, everyday moments.

Filling out a form at the bank or folding laundry became emotional minefields. All of these small tasks reminded me of his absence and the life we didn’t get to share anymore. It was during this journey of grief that I found comfort in cooking more regularly. I was fortunate that I didn’t have to follow strict family recipes or gender roles that often push women into the kitchen. I was free to explore, and my kitchen became a canvas for my feelings.

Initially, I learned basic dishes like poha and avial, focusing on things that felt manageable. However, as time passed, my perspective on cooking changed. I wasn’t interested in flashy, complicated recipes; rather, I craved the flavors I remembered from my childhood. I found myself longing to recreate the simple jeera aloo or my grandmother’s maanga chammanthi served with idlis. These were not just recipes; they connected me back to my roots and helped me understand who I was.

In my journey to recreate these childhood flavors, I faced challenges, especially when trying to perfect sambhar. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t capture the unique taste that made it special. Then, I stumbled upon a cooking tip that changed everything: fry sambhar powder and hing in oil before adding it to the boiled dal. As soon as I smelled the aroma fill my kitchen, I was transported back to moments shared with my father enjoying dosa together.

Cooking became a comforting ritual for me. The rhythm of chopping, stirring, and seasoning became a grounding force. With each small success, I felt more in control, even amidst the chaos of my emotions. It’s funny how cooking, a daily task, could connect me back to my father and my own identity.

I remember my father as a man of simple tastes. He rushed through meals, often eating cold chapatis with dal. But he had small joys, like roasted peanuts in winter or ripe summer fruits that would light up his face. He would come home with bags of watermelons, sitting on the floor to chop them into chunks. I can still picture him devouring mangoes, not leaving a single bit behind. Each bite was a moment of pure joy for him.

After his passing, I occasionally felt as if he was with me, standing just behind me as I cooked. It was strange and comforting at the same time, a reminder that grief can take on unexpected forms. Food, much like grief, carries emotional weight. Both are intertwined with love, memory, and sometimes sadness.

Sharing a meal eases loneliness. During the pandemic, I realized how food can bring people together, even when they’re apart. As I prepared beloved dishes like biryani or rasam, I conjured up happy memories of family gatherings or friends sharing a meal. Each dish I prepared was an opportunity to reconnect with my past.

Even today, I find solace in the kitchen. I continue searching for flavors that evoke forgotten memories. I can almost hear my father’s laughter and see him enjoying the food I’ve made. Cooking has become a way to honor his memory while also discovering who I am.

Through cooking, I’ve learned that the simple act of sharing a meal can be a beautiful reminder of love and loss. My journey continues as I explore flavors, recreate memories, and seek a deeper understanding of my own identity.

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Original Text – https://scroll.in/article/1086906/an-alchemy-of-grief-in-cooking-i-seek-out-flavours-forgotten-memories-and-my-father?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=public