thefeministwriterwhogoesmeh

I randomly walk around the kitchen, bugging my mom to let me see and smell what she is cooking. After much coaxing, she finally lifts the plate covering the kadhai, and the aroma of freshly cooked paneer bhurji hits my nostrils and floods me with memories of my younger years.

How we used to go to a restaurant over in Sunnyvale, called Bhavika, in our oversized Toyota Sienna. How, on entering, the numerous smells of rotis being coated in flour and the wonderful aromas of rajma or the occasional paneer bhurji (always my favorite) wafting around would fill me with an almost mouthwatering dizziness, increasing my hunger a hundredfold. How the kind, welcoming, Gujurati-accented grandpa’s (owner of the restaurant) face would light up with a smile as he recognized my dad, exclaiming, “Aao, Manish bhai!”

Those were the years following my mother’s neck surgery, rendering her pretty much helpless…