After my father died, I began cooking for my mother the same dishes she once made for him

Then everything changed.

On December 2, 2017, the day of Griha Praveveh of our new house, my father died. A heart attack. Suddenly. He was 59 years old. I was in Gurgaon, caught in traffic, unable to reach Durgapur in time. As I arrived, he had already passed. Our world collapsed like the Sauxes it had used in the molds.

She never moved into the new house he built with love. She left Durgapur, reluctantly, and came to live with me in Gurgaon. Everything here was a stranger to her. The tomatoes were insipid. Too spicy mustard oil. The language, the light, the rhythm of the city – does not feel anything at home. She was 50 years old and in mourning, having lost both her partner and her sense of place.

At first, I didn’t know how to take care of her.

So, I cooked.

At first, awkwardly. I send him a text from the kitchen for instructions. What is the relationship between ginger and garlic? Should I add the potatoes before or after the sheep? Slowly, it has become instinct. And slowly, something has changed.

I started to revisit our Sunday menus. His handwritten recipes, stained with oil and folded, have become my guide. I chased the same brand of mustard oil or ghee that it used. I looked for specialized stores for Gobindobhog Rice in Gurgaon. I rush my own spices. My kitchen has become a bridge.

When I did Pathar Jhol for the first time in Gurgaon, my mother looked silently. Then she said, “It smells like your baba.” Later in the evening, she took a second help. I didn’t cry in front of her, but I cried in the bathroom.

The kitchen for my mother has become my way of holding it. Reassuring her that rituals have not died with him. This memory can be kept alive not only through photographs or birthdays, but also with the Bhaja started on a steel plate, through spraying mustard seeds in hot oil.

Now, eight years since he left, I cook almost every weekend. Not because I have to, but because it brings me back to something sacred. My mother, once the orchestrator of our sensory world, is now seated in the corner of sun cuisine, looking. Occasional correction. Especially by remembering. Sometimes we cook together. Other times, she just eats what I do and smiles a smile that looks like the house.