Small Revelations

I was in my kitchen the other day, trying to whip up a wonderful roast chicken. No cookbook or food blog in sight, just me in my kingdom, experimenting with flavours. I rarely eat red meat: maybe a lamb or goat curry a few times a year, and I steer clear of beef (like a good little Hindu). I do enjoy plenty of fish and seafood. But chicken, above all, is my favourite. It goes in everything: chunks in noodles, grilled breast in sandwiches, breakfast sausages with toast, a hearty chicken stew with whole spices, a flavourful curry with ground spices, chicken in biryani—the versatility is endless. I must have made over a hundred chicken recipes, so I was right in my element. On this afternoon, I used hung curd, some lemon juice, dried fenugreek leaves, salt, and freshly ground pepper to create a marinade for my chicken, letting it sit for about an hour. 

I must exercise restraint and refrain from rambling on about the intricacies of the cooking process, acknowledging that not everyone shares my fervour for paragraph-long narrations of culinary endeavours. So, I’ll skip to the point when the chicken was done. The taste was delicious, if I may say so myself. But it seemed to ring a bell. Almost as if I’d had it before, which was impossible, seeing as it was my first attempt with this particular combination of ingredients.

Moments later, it struck me. My mother used to cook roast chicken that tasted exactly like this. True, mine was a bit smokier (I had used hot coal) and I had cooked it on a stove, while my mother cooked hers in the oven. But the flavour had an uncanny resemblance. As a child, my mother had often insisted upon me helping out in the kitchen, in hopes that I would learn at least the rudiments of cooking. But I had never paid much attention then, and only learnt cooking much later in high school.

I have only ever known my mother during my childhood: I had barely any relationship with her in my adult life, for she passed away when I was 19. I have often envied my friends or roommates during my college years and even later, because they could call their mothers at the drop of a hat to ask for advice multiple times throughout the day on even the most mundane tasks, such as boiling an egg. I was still blessed because I did have my grandmothers and no shortage of loving aunts, and I did call them a couple of times when trying to recreate a particularly tricky family recipe. But not as often as I would have liked to. I often ponder wistfully on the wealth of knowledge, both on things little and big, that was lost when she died, that I could have gleaned had I foreseen her absence as I embarked on my journey into adulthood. Call me a blind believer in the grace of God but I couldn't help but feel as though her recipe had been bestowed upon me through some form of revelation. 

This is certainly not the first time such uncanny things have happened to me. Often, when I'm deeply engrossed in a task, moving swiftly and unaware of myself, I suddenly zone out and notice traits within that mirror my mother, father, or grandparents. Minuscule things, like the way I pronounce a word, the moment I pause for breath in a sentence, a song I hum, or the way I softly sigh 'Ram!' under my breath when I'm weary.  

Bits and pieces of the people I loved have taken up residence within me, almost unnoticed. Is this my brain's subconscious method of preserving their essence? Or is it a silent gesture of love acting on my behalf? Could these be signs from beyond, reminders of their love and vigilant care, urging me to remember them? How many more such traces have escaped my notice? I cannot say. But I feel a thrill knowing that, in some small way, I carry a part of them within me—a part that, someday, I will unknowingly pass on to my children. 

I wonder how much of us is made of fragments of those who lived before us—not just our parents, but our grandparents, great-grandparents, and the ancestors we never met or heard stories of. I have also thought of those I have lost, imagining the profound conversations we might have if given one more chance to see them again. But perhaps they would simply want to share the small things—like how to make a good roast.