[A p p r e c i a t i o n]
The metal dabba reclines at the edge of the shelf, daring to tip over the periphery just as my mother clasps it. The waves of her concoction waft up from the pot and appease my nose, as her hand grips the lid of the box and removes it with ease. The pinch of fingers meet the first compartment as she lifts a sprinkle of jeera and whimsically tosses it into the pot. The aromatic juices of her sabzi sweep every intricate corner of our home. As we gather for our meal, I admire the development of her pot’s contents, the mixture coming together as a delicate roast of vegetables enveloped in a creamy coating. As she dallops a large spoon onto my plate, I see the components of the spice box intermingling in a tasteful frolic. I chew steadily, feeling the asafoetida’s tingle on my taste buds, and the refreshingly bitter bite of the mustard seeds. I lift my head from my delectable meal to thank my mother for the wonders of her spice box.
[E x a s p e r a t i o n]
As the evening hour approaches, I claim my quotidian spot at the dinner table and impatiently wait for my meal to be presented. As my mother rests the steaming pot of Indian curry on the surface of the table, I feel my frustration boiling. I loathe the idea that my creamy fingernails will soon be stained with the potent yellow color of haldi. I begrudgingly lift my spoon to my mouth and take a strenuous swallow of the over flavored cuisine.
“Roti and sabzi again Mama?” I question my mother. “Why can’t we eat something different?”
“Beta, one day you will long for your mother’s cooking” she replies, smiling.
I haphazardly finish my meal, the blade of my resentment sharply skewing me like a pinch of cumin.
[R e a l i z a t i o n]
She stands over the stove, her frail hand gripping the counter; the purple hued veins are protruding through her porcelain skin. She feebly raises her arm to reach for the spice box that now seemingly weighs of life's burden. I sit silently at the table, observing her every move and saunter. As she reaches behind her ear to tuck away a lock of her thick black hair, a few wispy strands detach from her scalp and perch in her hand. Her eyes glassen, grazing over what settles in her palm. Without a whimper, she steadily treads over to the trash can and lowers her hand to dispose of her tresses.
The days tick by, each week more fickle than the last. Her expression grows haunted, and her demeanor drains. The chemicals that now consume her once lively being wrench a pit in my stomach. The stomach that mourns the delicate dance of spices crafted in my mother’s hands. They assure me that the toxins they pump into her fragile body will eventually heal her. But how can I blindly swallow the very action that is relentlessly crushing my mother in front of my very eyes? My mother, once the enchantress of culinary wonder, lays as no more than a limp figure in her bed; her once vibrant spirit dimmed by the waves of illness. How can I swallow the tasteless cuisine that hurdles in a lump down my pipe? My tongue has shriveled into a dry and deprived morsel of flesh‒ desperately darting around the clump of flavorless food that uneasily settles at the roof of my mouth. The metal dabba lays abandoned on its shelf, collecting a rampant layer of dust. Once the maestro orchestrating the aromatic symphony in my kitchen, it now sits as a relic of bygone flavor.
I cautiously lift to the toes of my feet, and bring down the spice box from its proclaimed location. I open its lid, admiring the contents that lay deserted from their usual tender touch. The absence of the rhythmic clinking of utensils, and sizzle of spices deepens the hushed corridors of my home. As the flecks of chili powder casually waft up to my nose, the potent smell pleases my nostrils in an embrace. The rich yet peppery scent somehow begins an uncontrollable cascade of moisture. My tears are no longer streaming at the cause of the spice; I simply mourn the aroma that once used to ripple in these halls and blanket my home with endless comfort.
[A c c e p t a n c e]
In solitude, my hands instinctively reach for the spice box, a repository of flavorful memories that echo through my mind. As the lid creaks open, the scent of cumin, turmeric, and coriander swirl in the air, like phantoms of our culinary past. My heart heavy and my mouth desiccated, I sculpt a sense of determination. I embark on a journey to resurrect the sway of spices in our kitchen. My first pinch of cumin meets the sizzling oil with a whisper, a humble homage to the culinary legacy that courses through my veins. The kitchen that was abandoned, shrouded in silence, comes alive with the sizzle and pop of spices rekindling their symphony.
I bring my creation to my mother, a labor of love infused with budding nostalgia. As she takes a small spoonful, her eyes flicker with warmth and recognition; a feeble smile gracing her lips. The taste of my pot, though disparate, continues to carry the same solace. The bittersweet communion of flavors bridge the abyss between what was, and what remains.
Nirjara Akkole is a current junior in high school from Massachusetts. In her free time, she enjoys performing and watching Indian Classical Dance, as well as sewing! At her school, she is the President of the Speech and Debate Team, and Captain of the Varsity Tennis Team! She loves a good iced coffee and is an avid summer lover.