“Do you like okra?” My wife’s innocent question sliced through the afternoon chatter, instantly transporting me back to a different time, a simpler time. Nani’s time.
She moved in after Nana left, a tiny figure dwarfed by our furniture, but with a spirit that filled every corner. At eighty-something, her frame was frail, her hands gnarled with age, yet she insisted on doing everything herself. Every day, I’d watch her in the kitchen, her sari rustling like wind chimes as she bustled from stove to sink, conjuring up culinary magic.
Mom handled the daily cooking, but my heart belonged to Nani’s “special meals.” My pleas – “Nani, dal-chawal banado na? Aur bhindi bhujia!” – would elicit a chuckle from her eyes, wrinkles deepening at the corners. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she’d be chopping okra, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap against the cutting board a lullaby of comfort.
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I wouldn’t call myself sentimental, but Nani’s bhindi bhujia transcended mere food. It was a tapestry woven with love, with the quiet hum of her stories, with the warmth of her smile as she watched me devour each crispy, tangy bite. It was a testament to her strength, a frail woman conquering flames and spices, refusing to let age diminish her spirit.
Yes, standing in that kitchen, battling heat and fatigue, must have been her Everest. But she never let it show. Nani, like all nanis, had a superpower – the ability to make the impossible seem effortless, the ordinary taste divine.
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She’s gone now, replaced by memories and bittersweet smiles. But the taste of her bhindi bhujia lingers, a warm ember in the hearth of my being. It’s a reminder of her love, her resilience, her quiet magic.
And I know I’m not alone. Each of you, somewhere deep within, carries a taste of your own Nani, your Dadi, a flavor etched in love and loss, a whisper of a time that’s gone, but forever close. So share your stories, friends. Let the aroma of those memories fill the air, a tribute to the hands that fed and the hearts that loved. For in these shared experiences, our beloveds live on, a pinch of spice, a whisper of smoke, a taste of eternity.
