Waking up in the morning. Throwing the regular tantrum before leaving for school.
This is a scene witnessed by your furniture, daily.
As you pass through the rusted old gates of your school. You only look forward to one thing. No, it isn’t the star you will get from your teacher for completing your homework. Nor it is for eating the candies that are prohibited back at home.
It is the delicious food that awaits you on the dining table.
Albeit the fact that it happens every single day. It seems like it’s happening for the first time.
As you enter. The smell of spices and curry engulfs your gut. As you walk towards the source of this aroma. The melodious music of the spoon striking the stainless-steel surface of the pot distracts you. With curiosity increasing, by now you have forgotten all the problems that might be bothering you.
With every step you take, the smell gets intense. The pang in your stomach gets stronger. You can almost make out each ingredient. You start daydreaming. More like sleepwalking. You can imagine yourself eagerly waiting by the counter. Mesmerized by the magical transformation of the ball of dough into this perfectly round and flat piece of thin bread.
Reality kicks in as you barge into a chair. The same chair that witnesses your grumpy butt leave the house at dawn. Laughing at your stupidity, you rush to the kitchen.
Upon reaching the counter, you are welcomed by a smile. A smile that soaks in all your worries. The greetings of an angel. Your mother. Exhausted from cleaning the house and completing the daily chores. Sweating, struggling to stand due to pain in her knees, standing in front of you with such happiness that successfully conceals her freckled, aging, quickly-tiring body.
After the basic exchange of words. You yearn for the food.
She readily lifts the lid of the pot. With steam blurring the view at once, you can literally taste the flavor. Well cooked chicken absorbing the red juicy gravy giving a creamy texture. Topping it with a dash of coriander leaves, she then takes out a fresh piece of loaf from the oven.
With tears in your eyes and butterflies fluttering through your intestine, you dive into the dish. 15 minutes later, with a bloated stomach, and having burned the ceiling of your mouth, you start dreading to wake up for school the next day.
You miss it all. Her cooking. The flavors. The perfect measurement of salt and pepper. The generous portion she would grant you every single time.
But then you come to realize. Maybe her food is not that delicious. Maybe what you actually cherish is her flawless love. Her excitement to cook. Her look of satisfaction when you empty the pot.
It’s not your cooking that I miss. It is you, Ma. I miss you.
Mohsin A. 