ONE FOR THE HANDS THAT MAKE

Here she comes, wiping her damp hands in the saree fold that's shoved inside her in-skirt on the waistline. Her stance is skewed even as she is happily greeting us at the dining table for the family dinner. Ma is old, fifty-eight, to be precise, and probably has multiple joint aches and back pain. Probably - because we never asked her, and she never complains.

Even as she is nearing sixty, she has never accepted the idea of someone else taking over the kitchen in our house. She lets us help her while cooking once in a while. But a cook in her place is never what she had imagined. Maybe because she knows we are all bound by her handmade food that no one else can replicate. Or maybe because Papa wouldn't approve of the taste of anyone else's cooking. I wonder if it's because she secretly thinks we would stop loving her if she ever stops cooking. Or just because she just loves doing it. Whatever the reason, aren't mothers the most underappreciated creatures on this planet? 

She lays the plate in front of us as we passively fill each other's tumblers with water. She doesn't feel the jarring need to cover her pruney hands as she scoops out a morsel from the casserole. There are stains from the turmeric powder, chilly and coriander powder on her hands and saree, but she doesn't seem to be bothered by them one bit. Because that's all one gets for working relentlessly for two hours to bring a family together at lunch. She silently sits with us to eat and waits until no one has felt the need to appreciate her. 

"How's the food? Is it okay?" She asks. And we all nod our heads in unison as if saying it out in words would hurt. She doesn't ask any further as she is content with our sign of approval and proceeds to eat. 

"There could have been a bit more salt and a little less tamarind." My Papa knows how exactly to spoil someone's first taste of food from their plate. She stops midway and looks at me. I know she is asking me if it's true, and I slightly shake my head sideways and ask her to carry on. She takes the next bite. 

"Not the best of your sambar anyway. Something is missing; I can't tell exactly what." 

"But, Mami. This is your bowl of sambar. Prepared with less spice for you separately." Ma prepares Dadi a separate bowl of everything by taking out a considerable amount without spices because she just can't handle it.

"Yes, I am talking about that." Dadi tch-es in her usual tone, and I can see Ma's face fall this time. She doesn't look at me now. She is too tired to listen to them. 

"Oh, is it?" That's all she says before serving another scoop of rice for my little sister.

"Ma, I can't eat this now. How much rice will you serve me? I am going to turn fat and ugly when I become old." She tries resisting my mother, but somehow, the scoop lands on her plate. She reluctantly mixes it with some more sambar and fried potato and stuffs it inside her mouth. Ma hasn't eaten her share of fried potatoes for her sake, though she loves them the most. 

Amidst all this, Ma is still the same. She doesn't unlove anyone sitting at the table. She doesn't stop passing the curry bowls and rice casserole to everyone. She doesn't let her disappointment show in her face. She doesn't yell or scream at anyone for criticising her. Even if doing so would be fitting from her point of view. She doesn't school anyone about the need for a little damning appreciation because she has taken the time to make it with love. And above all, she doesn't just stop cooking. She goes on about dinner, breakfast, and lunch, in the same vicious cycle, making food, serving it on the table, holding the family together, getting criticised and walking away without a word of appreciation. She knows it's how it is, and she goes on. 

I still wonder what I should have done differently to let her know that she was a wonderful mother. What would have made a difference in her life that didn't let her assume that she wasn't enough for all of us? What could I have said to prevent her smile from turning ashen? What could I have done to make her stay?

P.S. Though this is a work of fiction, most of its content is real. And I didn't know sharing it with my mother would make her burst into tears of joy. Did you thank your mother / wife / husband / any other family member / house help for making you your meal today?

This post is a part of #BlogchatterFoodFest 2024

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