We are village people; our eyes opened in a simple house, and we were welcomed by raindrops leaking from the roof. Our time wasn’t one of diapers, so we used cloth nappies. We didn’t have many toys to play with; we siblings played together. If we didn’t have a cricket bat, we carved one out of wood and played with a plastic ball to fulfill our passion.
Our house didn’t have a telephone, so we made pretend mobiles out of mud and played skits. We didn’t have a fridge, so flour and food items were stored in containers and left outside in the open air at night.
The finest thing in our home was the taste, even though we didn’t have many spices. Just red chili, turmeric, and black pepper were enough to make a dish, and it turned out great. No five-star hotel could match the taste of the food cooked by my mother’s hands. Sitting around the stove and eating, and the moment she’d add another spoonful when the dish was almost finished, felt like a treasure.
The taste would linger on the tongue for hours, and the house would be filled with a delightful aroma.
Years have passed, and I have become an urban dweller. Life is full of conveniences, and I am so fond of spices that my kitchen has almost as many as a store does. I enjoy cooking myself, so I try to collect all kinds of spices. I have everything now, but where can I find the taste that was in my mother’s hands?
Mothers don’t just leave alone; they take the flavors with them, leaving behind only spices and memories in the kitchen.
