by Rudri Patel
After all these years, I understand the significance of these two memories.
***
1991. I am eighteen.
He motions his fingers in a way that means, “Hurry.” My father could not wait. His bare feet touch the gray pavement inside his aunt’s home in Boravali, India. When he enters the bungalow, the blue hammock greets him, and the smell of buttered nuts and saffron floats in the air. Even before he sets foot in the kitchen, the green halwa glimmers like a beacon of light inside the room where his aunt feels most at home.
A familiar voice welcomes us on arrival. “Himat, beta, I cannot believe you are here. After so many years living in America, you are finally here. “
A small woman appears, her head covered by her batik-print sari. I trail behind my father, not wanting to interrupt this moment.
My father’s aunt pats him on the back. He kneels down and touches her feet, an Indian custom that demonstrates a signaling of respect for elders. She touches his head as a way to bestow a blessing and slips a large piece of green gooey something into his mouth. Later I learn this halwa isn’t just a favorite Indian sweet, but it is a way for my father to really feel he is home again.
***
2000. I am twenty-seven.
Sitting at the dining table of my childhood home, I watch as my mother stirs several ingredients into a pan. Her small hands move in a motion of uniform circles and as she looks up, I catch her checking measurements. This is an odd sight to witness because my mother is one of those cooks that relies on instinct. She stares at the corner of the countertop, where I see a small piece of paper.
“Mom, what is that paper? Are you using a recipe?” I ask her, surprise in my voice.
“Yes, Rudri, I am using a recipe. I am making halwa today for your father.” She answers my question without looking up. I suspect she does not want any room for error.
The same aromas I experienced years earlier linger in our kitchen. I realize that my mother has consulted with my father’s aunt to ensure that she does not miss a single step in this special recipe. As she places finishing touches to the halwa, she grabs a silver plate, an exact replica of the one I saw years ago in India.
Every action is purposeful. She wants to recreate that feeling of home again for my father.
When he arrives later that day, I wonder if he can smell the remnants of his roots. I wonder if he remembers the countless conversations he shared with his aunt while swinging on that hammock and eating halwa, staying up until 2:00 a.m. and telling her about life in Texas while she laughs. She is entertained by the adventures he describes, and as happy to hear his voice as he is, to hear her laughter.
How would he react to a part of his past making a reentry into his other “home”?
My father takes a bit of this halwa goodness, and he smiles.
“This is very good, Ranjan, but not quite the same as hers.”
He eats several pieces in silence and I watch as he daydreams, convinced that with one bite alone, he journeys back into his past and relives memories of his childhood in India.
I am certain that the halwa is comparable to what my father’s aunt makes, but his surroundings create an entirely different context. No gray pavement or hammock accessorizes our home. Instead, a Persian rug covers the floor of our living room, knick-knacks from various retail stores decorate our walls, and my mom presents the halwa, smiling, in an American dress.
Admitting that this halwa tastes as good as his aunt’s might diminish his memory of home. Can we ever really go home again?
© Rudri Patel
Rudri Bhatt Patel is a former lawyer turned writer. She spends her days balancing motherhood and writing about culture, grief, and parenting. She is a freelance writer for parenting and cultural sites and is also at work on a memoir about grief and life’s ordinary graces. You can find more of her musings on her blog, Being Rudri.
Part of a series of essays, recipes, and other tidbits on food and love, in celebration of Valentine’s week.
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I love this story. So personal, loving, and really makes you think as a reader. I feel like after one leaves the nest, if you will, that “going back” can never really be achieved. It is almost as if we constantly search for a nostalgic idea of what home used to be, or our perception of how it was. Things have to change and people have to change for any kind of profession and growth. It is hard to have things stay the same while changing. Love this post. Thank you for sharing.
I agree, Sara. The nostalgic element is comforting, but isn’t quite the same as experiencing it for the first time. I think we hold on to those memories, but as we grow into our own families and self, our notion of home becomes more complicated. Thanks for sharing your experience.
Thanks, Wolf, for the opportunity to write in your space. This piece brought home memories of my family and our times in India and Texas. I am surprised at how a single Indian sweet had such an impact on my reflections regarding my family and the notion of home.
A part of us never leaves home. A beautiful piece.
Thanks, Ayala.
More than the mind, memory etches the heart so nothing quite compares to the original. Beautiful, Rudri.
Thanks, Susan. Memory fascinates me. As we live, do we know what will take hold of us in the future?
This is such a beautiful piece Rudri – I love your Cultural references and your depictions of it. Sometimes you can go home again but its never the same as the real thing. 🙂 Have a great one! -Iva
Iva,
I am glad that the cultural references resonated with you. Writing this piece helped channel some wonderful memories of my summers India.
Thanks for your support.
Rudri, I always enjoy when you write here and this piece is so present that I felt that I was there with you. Merci!
Heather,
I am so glad that you could feel the texture of the piece. I tinkered with it in the past tense, and Wolf aptly suggested I place it in the present tense. I think it captures the moment as it transpired.
Just a beautiful reminiscence, Rudri. Vivid and gentle at the same time. Thank you so much for sharing your memory here.
This is just lovely, Rudri. I can feel the many layers of your story – the losses experienced in immigration, the love of your mother, the promise of the future, the connections between past and present, childhood and adulthood – your story reminds me of something that Jhumpa Lahiri would write. Thank you so much for sharing this story. I was able to picture your father, mother, and aunt so vividly.
Cecilia,
This memory of my father and halwa is quite ancient. When I sat down to write this piece, my initial reaction surprised me. I could remember details as if these two events occurred yesterday. It is always enlightening when I reflect on my past as to what leaps out of my memory.
Jhumpa Lahiri’s writing is one that I admire. Thank you for your generous compliment, Cecilia.
You made me sad as I read this, realizing that some of the things my mother baked will never be again. I can try – but can’t really replicate. What a lovely piece and remembrance, Rudri. I can just picture his aunt delighting in his stories. I wonder if Texas and India could be any further apart? Culturally. Wow!