Mother's Recipe

That’s the fish my Mom cooked. I’m glad it appeared over the Mother’s Day weekend. I don’t need to validate her culinary skills. I am beginning to doubt whether even Kajori maachh or Bhetki maachh or the Pabda can ever be made superior to this one.

I didn’t give her any customary gifts, unless you count the passes to “Phir Kabhi” at the India Habitat Centre Film Festival. My parents seemed to like it despite the 6 intermissions. I was there, with them. Like a true Sagittarian, Mom loves travelling. She bought me shoes. Now that could also mean that she’s trying to get me off my butt and back into the fray.

I didn’t think she would approve of me wearing Kajal. It’s funny how she noticed it although I had wiped it off really well.

I like hearing her giggle. And I like it when I hear her taking deep breaths throughout the night when she turns over and falls asleep again. Or when she thinks that I slept in my room because she had taken up all the space on her bed. Or when I ask for an egg roll when it’s almost midnight and she says that I should probably stick to one. There’s an entire room separating us but that’s not the distance I fear. I think I am afraid because when I hug her, it’s perfect.