Halwa Memories
A tiny water droplet rolling down the side of her face. Her hair, still wet, wrapped in a towel. A red bindi on her makeup-free face. The pressure cooker, ready to be opened. The three burner gas stove in the middle of a flurry of activity. The dough, resting, before it got transformed into fluffed up balls of fried goodness. A bowl full of neatly chopped almonds and cashews along with raisins waiting to do their bit. All those gorgeous aromas emanating from the kitchen. And her experienced hands creating magic.
I knew what day it was. She told me yesterday. The once-a-year celebration that I would wait for. Eagerly. Also, the one day when I wished I was a girl too! Because my sister got invited by all the aunties in the neighborhood. She returned home with gifts, cash and plates full of food.
The menu was always constant. But we could tell which plate came from where. The luscious, browned halwa with toasted cashews and raisins peaking invitingly was from Pinky aunty, our next door neighbour. The pale looking one was always low on sugar. Roma aunty always packed the poori-halwa in a tiffin box. But my favourite was the one made by her. My mother.
This year, it was different. I sat in bed, thousands of kilometers away from home, eyes half shut, wading through a sea of cherished memories, waiting for her to call. Finally the phone rang. A video call.
"Hi Ma!"
"Sorry Raja! I got late. Just sent the last of the kanyas home. All of them were very happy with their gifts. Your 'painting set' gift idea was a huge hit with the children."
I smiled through the strong wave of longing. I wanted to be home, sitting at the dining table, stuffing myself with yummy food. I wanted to lick my fingers and taste a mix of sweet and salty.
"Let me see what all you made ma."
"It is always the same! Let me show you."
She struggled to adjust the camera. And then I could see. It was all there. Gleaming kaala chana with that delicious masala coating it. That gorgeously brown, glistening halwa and two puris waiting to be fried.
"The last two were for me but I didn't feel like frying those. Both my children are far away this year." Ma whispered through a lump in her throat.
Silence stretched between us before I insisted. Ma nodded after a few minutes and placed thai on the gas stove. The gentle sizzle when the poori slid into the oil was like a symphony to my ears. When it puffed up and changed colour, I found myself standing next to ma, on Durga Ashtami, waiting eagerly for the poori to finally land on my plate.
The nostalgia was all encompassing. My heart overflowed with warm fuzzies and I smiled as I went back and forth between the past and present.