: Plating Memory: How My Mothers Food Helped Me Deal With Her Loss #IndiaNEWS #Food Few things make you realise who you are more than the loss of your mother. With my mother, Putul Pal, it was her

Plating Memory: How My Mothers Food Helped Me Deal With Her Loss #IndiaNEWS #Food
Few things make you realise who you are more than the loss of your mother. With my mother, Putul Pal, it was her food.
It has been a few months since the day my Ma slipped away from my life. Her abrupt loss left a deep wound and unending questions that haunt me every night. One of the few things that helped me cope with this all-consuming pain was cooking the food she would so lovingly make for me.
It also put me on a journey of self-discovery, a quest to find my mother within myself and eventually, me as a person.
Like so many young women in India, I have spent most of my life trying to ‘be my own person’ and charting the different paths that I wanted for myself. Since I can remember, my Ma has been my backbone in this search for individuality, tirelessly pushing me to chase my dreams.
Yet, I never wanted to be her. After all, I was going to be ‘different’. From the food she made to the Ekta Kapoor-style TV shows she watched, I would constantly argue with her about the choices she made. Why are we eating a weird saag that most people don’t even know the name of, I would exasperatedly ask her.
Until May 2021, that is, when she was no more, and there were no more chances of eating Maayer haather khaabar (food made by mother’s hands). Food that is more than just a collection of recipes. It stands for roots, home and love.
It was her loss that finally made me realise roots run deep. All my life, I have felt rootless, as a Bengali girl who has lived in Goa, Andamans, Puducherry and Bengaluru but never in Bengal. I know how to whip up a mean Cafreal or Podi Idli, but I never learnt how to make the traditional Bengali dishes that I grew up with.
But her death made me realise that I did have roots and that they mean everything when the world falls apart around you.

As I struggled to make sense of this crushing loss, my memories often turned to food. My mother had been my portal into the culinary world. A total foodie, she would delight in deliciousness and pour all her love into feeding me.
I remember sunny afternoons on the balcony as she fed me dollops of ghee-laden ‘Khichuri’ (Rice-Lentil Medley) while turning the birds in the sky into characters for her stories; long power cuts on rain-drenched evenings, when she fried up ‘Fulkopi Pakora’ (Cauliflower Fritters) in candlelight; birthdays and Pujo days when she stirred up the best ‘Payesh’ (Rice Pudding) in the world; the umpteen boxes she packed for me every time I would leave for a new semester of college, slipping in surprise treats ever so often.
Even after I got married and moved away, every call from her would begin with, ‘Khabar kheyechis?’ (Have you eaten?) — a question she continued to ask me every single time I visited her in the ICU, even as her battered body battled the coronavirus.

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