The bond of taste

Lip-smacking memories.
| Photo Credit: Getty Images/iStockphoto

Recently, in a casual conversation, a friend from my former hostel recalled how scrumptious my mother’s chicken curry used to be, its taste still a delectable memory for him. When we were studying in a residential school, our parents were allowed to visit us on Sundays. It was a time for us to relish home-cooked food and sometimes I would share it with my close friends. They would just love the lip-smacking curry my mother would prepare. I would get my steel box returned with no trace of curry left in it.

A part of the credit for my mother’s cooking should go to me as I was always the food taster at home. I was a genuine critic of her cooking, giving my opinion about everything she cooked, whether asked for or not. Though I would comment on some days that the food was excellent, mostly, my comment would be on what was missing or in excess in the dishes. Never then had I thought about how she would feel about my opinions.

But it was never too late for me to realise the worth of her culinary skills when I got into the residential school at the age of 11. From then on, for higher education and then in search of a career, I had to stay away from home. For the next 25 years, I had to tune my taste buds to silently accept all varieties of foods with no comments. For no one bothered if I felt good or bad about what was being served.

Later on, it was only during festivals that we would get the chance to visit home and taste her food. As the years progressed, after marriage and having a child, the frequency of visits reduced to twice or thrice a year. In the meantime, she developed rheumatoid arthritis. Her bones started getting weaker and her joints ached. With all that pain, she still kept helping in household and kitchen work.

Even today whenever we visit, though she finds it difficult, she makes it a point to sit and cook something that is a favourite of mine. She finds her happiness and fulfilment in nothing bigger than how well we enjoy a meal or two.

Back from home, it always worries me how we take the love of our parents for granted and how much and on what terms we return that love when they start ageing and we find it difficult to be as reliable and dependable as they were for us. It requires a lot of sensitivity from our end to understand their insecurities and be there for them as they lean on us more as we were once on them.

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