tastes of home

Writing has always been my way of making sense of the world, of finding meaning in the everyday. Sometimes it's through analyzing literature, and sometimes it's through exploring the simple connections that shape us. This is one of those explorations - a reflection on how love lives in the smallest details, and how putting those details into words helps me understand what matters most.

I taste it in my mom’s coconut rice, every bite warm as her hug when I came back from school after an argument with eyes soaked in tears, waiting for her embrace to take it away. I taste it in the sip I take of my dad’s tea as I warm it up from him, the sweetness of it as comforting as his hand over my head on the way back from road trips, his gentle presence distracting me from the unsettling carsickness. I taste it in the french fries I share with Mehar, always insisting I take the first but as she watches with anticipation, just like our childhood movie nights when she’d carefully position the snack bowl between us, making sure I got the perfect spot on the couch. I taste it in the chocolate cake I make with Pragunn, the frosting just as perfect as the moment I held her in my arms for the first time, her eyes shut and lips folded into the most special smile. I taste it in the lemonade from our favorite restaurant, too sweet for me now yet every sip stirring memories of summer evening with all five us squished into one booth, laughter echoing over the background jazz, the sun spilling in through the windows. I taste it in the mangoes we cut together in July, their juice dripping down our wrists, sticky finger and sweet smiles, the kind that needed no napkin. I taste it in the late-night popcorn, slightly burnt the way dad always made it, his excuse always the same: “adds crunch” as if it were gourmet and somehow, that slight bitterness still feels like home. I taste it in the paratha my mom wraps in foil when I travel , the ghee-soaked folds carrying more than just flavor – carrying her care, her love, her warmth. I taste it in the cup noodles Mehar and I cheffed up on long study nights, pages with marked with highlighters and half-done notes, stress melting into laughter over nothing at all. I taste it in the birthday pancakes Pragunn insists on making for everyone, even when half the batter ends up on the counter – her effort, messy yet memorable, making them taste better than the ones we could order. 

And in each of these tastes, there’s more than just memory.  There’s love - the kind that’s stirred into the food we make, poured into the places we sit, blended into the conversations we share. It’s a recipe written in the quiet moments, in the loud laughter, in the ways we care for each other. A flavor that lingers long after the plate is empty.