Struggle in the kitchen

Struggling through the heavily frozen packed and the plastic wrapped box, I finally get the chicken out.  With a careful aim and careless misses, I cut the chicken into parts. 

It is now time for me to throw the chicken into the boiling hot pan. The oil splashes and reaches for my skin. It makes a mark. But neither do I rub myself in pain nor do I feel numb.  I get back to my memories and recall the smell of past and the sound of my mother's bangles crank. 

Early morning for my school, still in bed and I hear the thunders above my head. I wake up to the sound and scream to my mom. With the whatsoever energy left from the morning chores and preparation for my breakfast and lunch, she was struggling to smear and tear the tomatoes on the stone slab. My favorite golbhedako achar. Unnoticed; her effort, grieve in my own pain, " what's for today's lunch?"

Later that evening, after the school, I run home. I throw away my clothes and socks, show a sad face and speak in disdain, "Why mother again the same lunch?"

I've heard my name and I've heard the pressure cooker blow the whistle plenty of times. I hear my name again and the sound gets closer and closer with every steps. My mother opens the door but I've locked it, the same room that she cleans when I'm not home.  "Son, come for dinner, it's getting cold. Daal Bhaat ani timro favorite maasu ra golbhedako achar!"

The smoke detector blares and I see the black smoke and the chicken is almost burnt. And I ask myself why did I tell her, "Please give me a moment!” with the phone in my hand. I was rather too busy with my friends and myself and not complement her even once for all the efforts she had done.

With my effort to get that tang of taste of my mother’s hand on my taste buds, I think precisely how she makes food. From the shelves, I take out different spices with weird names and this time I don't even use the canned tomatoes. I’ve cut the tomatoes too into pieces. Soon, the smell seems good enough and I garnish it with cilantro.  A handful goes into mouth, and I'm still thinking and dying to eat my mother's food. What is missing in my food is the selfless love of my mother. 

If you have made mistakes and made your mother unhappy, it's never late to talk to her. A mother is happy when her children are happy but she is happier when you show her that you love her.