A lesson in love
Many moons ago, a random somebody told me that I should learn to love like my mother does — I rolled my eyes and brushed it off. I won’t deny that Ma is one of my heroes and very progressive for her time and place. Yet, I wanted to be my own individual person. I was intent on making choices different from hers — drinking tea in a house that smells like filter coffee. Indulging in dark chocolate instead of mithai. And can somebody explain how I was to learn to love like her. Rather, why would I? Outrageous.
To be honest, I wanted to be popular and learn the language of modern love. From K-Jo movies and chick flicks. Ones with long sighs and butterflies. In short, there was less interest to be individualistic and more interest to be accepted. The stereotype was my inspiration.
Ma didn’t partake in my theatrics. In her words, she has better things to do. I would describe Ma saying all she needs is — to cook and feed people. It is her identity. It is how she expresses her love. When we were younger, she encouraged both my brother and I to learn how to cook. For her, it is an important skill. I vehemently protested. Modern women don’t do that! If I was made to cook, I would never forgive myself. It was a bit too menial.
Grudgingly, the rational part of me thought there might be some merit to Ma’s suggestion. So as a way to keep it interesting — I made an art project out of food. I was doing the inevitable quick fix. Obviously. Then I cooked for brand value when I was not eating home cooked Tamil food like kootu and rasam. I made the occasional hummus, Thai curries, salads and bake dishes. I guess I would survive if I had to.
Until very recently, in the pandemic, I began compulsively cooking because I needed to kill time outside of my laptop screen. It was a great way to keep my hands and mind occupied. After the dalgona coffees, pancakes, and home made pizzas, the fun was fast fading. To keep it interesting one weekend, I food swapped with a close friend. The following weekend, I swapped again. The next thing I knew — I was cooking food for everyone I know in exchange for food from everyone I know.
In my limited years of being in the kitchen, I finally fell in love with cooking. It was the simple joy of making and feeding people. It was not a chore or about me anymore. The generosity was more important. The force felt larger. Like, love.
In the end, I did eventually learn to love like Ma does.
