It was the usual messenger, group call between me, mom, and sis. Most often it’s just like all women conversations — filled with politics, economics, history, science, and some good-old gossip, family memories, and bickering. This time mom said something that took me down an interesting memory lane. She said, “Regardless of how perfect you want to be to your children, there will most certainly be something that you didn’t do right or enough or even something plain wrong. That’s one pain all parents will have to live with or deal with, at some point in their life.” Predictably, we, the kids went quite for a moment or two. What can one possibly say to this? “It’s okay mom, we are good…” Nah, that wouldn’t cut any ice. Anyway, experience has taught us to quietly move on other landmine-free areas like Edapaddi, Beela Rajesh, Vijaya Bhaskar, or even Modi or Amit Shah.
Long after the call, I got thinking of my childhood, long before my sister came along. Those 5-short/long years with my folks. Most of the time, it’s just a blur. At some moments, snatches of fuzzy images come to mind. Like the time I would sleep between mom and dad. Our pinkish mosquito net, which would be tucked in by mom, before pa would put out the light and climb into it. Or, my brown-colored pencil case on which were embossed all the letters of the alphabet. And, the aluminum brief case that my maternal grandpa gifted for my school, on which pa got someone to engrave my name, along with a little peacock. That peacock was for a longtime my companion, especially since I didn’t have any toys. .
Toys came with my sister, and some days she herself was my toy. Not that I didn’t have any toys, I had kitchen sets in just about every medium known to man; wooden, stainless steel, fired mud, and maybe even plastic. But, the real big toys arrived much later, predictably due to more disposal income making its way home with mom joining the workforce.
This afternoon, after a sumptuous lunch I settled into a quiet siesta when images of my childhood home filled my mind. I was fully dressed for school and was sitting crossed legged on the floor, waiting for my breakfast. I knew my mom was grinding the chutney using the traditional hand mixer (ammi) in the kitchen.
Soon, she hurried into the room, with a ball of white chutney and steaming, white and soft idlies. She mumbled some endearment and left the chutney on the plate. The stainless steel plate was shaped like a leaf, with markings like the veins on a leaf. It used to be my plate. To this day, I remember the exceptional taste of that chutney. She would use a small piece of coconut, a clove of garlic, and some fried grams to make it. I would polish off 2 idlies with that chutney and hop my way, gaily to school. And, this happened every day.
I must have been 2/3 months short of my third birthday. My mom had recently landed a job and was probably hurrying for work after getting me ready for school. But, even then, she made sure I enjoyed my daily breakfast, and probably other things too. Probably this is why I always make sure I give my baby, exactly what he likes, and I am always finding newer recipes adapted to his palate. Hopefully he’ll carry on the tradition of adapting food for his kids and in the process help them create memories that uplift, inspire, and gladden the broken adult heart.
Perhaps, this kutty story will help with the perennial parental pain.
