“What I Couldn’t Do for My Mother”

As I entered my home, the savory smell of chicken curry made its way into my nostrils. I quickly visited the kitchen to see that not only chicken curry was made, but pappad, pulao, vegetable pakora, aloo achar, and halwa was made. My eyes twinkled like that star faced looking emoji. A few of my favorite dishes made by the one and only female Gorden Ramsey: my mom. I quickly got changed and headed to the kitchen to try out the dishes. As I tasted each of them, a sudden rush of ease came over me. As a Nepali, I can tell the difference between other South Asian chicken curries and Nepali curry as most people usually stereotype curry with desi people. Now, lemme tell you how good it felt to have a mom who can cook up a buffet and know that some of my friends don’t have moms that can cook even a simple dinner. At that moment, I loved my mom even more. The love, time, and effort she puts in her cooking is what everyone in my house can taste. I couldn’t help but think about everything my mom has done for me. She’s the only consistent presence in my life. Back home in Nepal, New York, Texas; she was there. The smell and the taste of spices in the chicken gravy brought me back to a familiar place: my bedroom in Nepal.

Half awake, I patted the other side of the bed, but she wasn’t there. I felt for warmth, but all I could feel is the cold, cushioned mattress. I opened my eyes and stood almost up right. I looked around the vacant room where the ringing silence scared me. My eyes filled up with tears, and I began to wail for my ama. Probably cried for a good 2 minutes before she scurried into the room with a cup of tulsi tea in her hand.

“Why are you crying, shhh! What amaaa amaa?” She said in a slightly raised voice. As she slipped inside the blanket, I took a sip from the cup and was immediately comforted by the sweet and spiced mixture down my throat. I wrapped my right arm around her waist and slept soundly knowing that my protector was right by side.

         I lightly shook my head and smiled at that fond memory. I finished up eating and went to my room to start on my assignments. A few hours had passed by, and I was feeling a little bored but there was something else too. It’s was this whatever feeling when you have nothing to do so eating your away out of that seemed like something I can satiate myself. I trotted to the kitchen and picked out a decent size chicken piece and popped it into my mouth. Again, that rush of ease calmed my sensations. I bobbed my head and hummed my way to the fridge to see if there was anything else I can eat or drink.

“What are you doing?”

I looked behind me and my mom was standing in front of the dining table.

“Teehee… eating” as I munched loudly on the shredded chicken to let her know I ate some.

“Nanu, you’re too much. When will you stop eating like that?”, She replied.

“Mommy pleasee okay, I can’t help myself. This chicken is JUST too good.”

We both laughed and sat down. Usually, when I get caught eating from the pot, I feel glad that it’s my mom and not anyone else. I feel like it shows her how much I appreciate her cooking and mostly drives her passion to cook for us not as her duty, but just that she feels happy seeing us satisfied.

Over these years, she’s become my best friend. I can tell her some good tea, show her memes and videos, and joke around with her to almost everything. But, most importantly I can be this unfiltered version of myself.

At random times, I would go up to her and ask “Mommy, you love me?” or “Do you think I’m pretty like a model?” in a perky, sarcastic tone, and she would then violate me, pointing out my million bumps on my forehead, my hair loss, and my caterpillar looking eyebrows if I hadn’t gotten them done yet. Yes, yes that’s one of the things I enjoy about our mother daughter relationship. These roast sessions along with my mom’s broken English has us both laughing for a good minute that stretches into the loving bond we share.

         It was around 7pm and it was almost time for dinner. As I set out my clothes and packed my bag for school the next day, my mom called my brother and I for dinner. I washed my hand and served myself the food she had cooked that day. It was a quiet family dinner. I stared at everyone and they were all focused on eating. Then, my dad broke the silence and talked to my mom. “Huh? They’re talking again?” I thought in my head. As I gulped down the pulao and curry, I suddenly remembered why they were back on talking terms. It was the food! Cook good food and that’ll make everyone happy. That was the golden cure to everyone’s beef with each other. I guess, food really does have that sort of power; the power to bring everyone together in the dining table and simply indulge what’s there. Suddenly, my face scrunched up to a distasteful fenugreek on my tongue that I quickly picked out. “Ewwgh, mom had to put this in the lentils,” as I sighed. Going from happily enjoying my dinner to the lasting, disgusting taste of fenugreek seed brought me back to my parents’ patch up. My parents’ marriage isn’t at all #couplegoals. Sometimes, it reminds me that marriage can happen without love.

I zoned out to remembering the heated arguments that would last for months and my brother and I acting like messengers between the two god-like figures cause you know or not know what they say, parents are gods on earth. My brother and I would exchange a couple of glances and mouth “go study” to each other. But there was something else in these arguments I became aware of.

There were two things I’ve come to notice in every dispute:

 “It’s YOUR fault that the kids are acting up. YOU don’t ever teach them good manners. YOU spoil them.”

And that there’s only one voice I hear. Every time I hear those words, guilt punches me in the throat. We all know what the thundering voice of a man can do. Everyone else is silent and no one can dare to speak up, especially my mom. Little me, inside my brain, gathering up my arguments and every rebuttal I can think of, but too bad no one can hear them out.

I mean, I can at least say, “it’s not her fault, why are you always blaming her?” But, is that enough? Of course not. Why couldn’t I think about my mom? I claim to appreciate her and praise her cooking, but I couldn’t stand up for her?

The truth at the end of the day is that I just don’t have the courage to say what’s needed in many times like this where those words of weapons strikes straight at her. To touch the inner soul of a hard headed man needs not empathy but bravery. Bravery to shoot carefully crafted sentences at the man whose ways I think are like Lord Shiva; not only the creator but the destroyer of our home.

         My parents’ laughter pulled me back to the present. I looked up at my mom and felt guilty. I knew and she knew too that this happiness is short lived and will eventually come to an end. This moment weighed into the questions I’ve kept into the back of my mind. How can she tolerate these cycles of fights and short-termed patch ups? Isn’t she tired of peace never getting the chance to settle in this house? I’ve never understood how could she keep this up. Every pain, every stress enters her open arms that was supposed to be meant for me and my brother. I could ask her all of this, but I know my mom; she won’t answer it straight forwardly.

         I finished up my last bites and went over to the kitchen to wash my dishes and start on my nightly chores. I washed any remaining plates, pots, and pans and wiped down the dining table, the countertops, the stove, microwave, and the sink. As I was sweeping the floor, it felt a little hard to breathe. I looked down at my food belly and reasoned that was the cause. I inhaled deeply and continued my work. Then, I became slightly alarmed at a thought that flew into my mind. I need to learn how to cook. Now, that scared me because till this day, I do not know how to cook a single dish. If my parents were out of town and the prince of England stopped by to visit, we would be having some eggs and ice cubes. I’ll admit that’s a problem and even embarrassing as well. I’ve heard my dad saying girls younger than my age knows how to cook many dishes countless times, and now it’s hitting me. I got a quick flashback of my friend who snapped me some baked potatoes she made. The pressure of my food belly weighed on my breathing even more. I kept repeating I need to learn how to cook and said to myself, “ok, this summer, I’ll learn something from my mom.”

To be quite frank, even if I do set up a day where my mom can teach me something, I’ll probably drift off into my room in the middle of the lesson and come back when the food is ready–and I’m ready to devour. But hopefully, on one bright summer’s day, if I can learn something, then it’ll take off some weight on her. She wouldn’t have to wake up at 6am to start her day; she could sleep in a little bit. She wouldn’t have to worry about the menu for the day before she leaves for work; she can have little time for herself. This is something I can do for her. Cook something sweet and simple for all of us.

First Draft: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1A9BCGXok78FDOw0nbbgEvvZ2ReCBHIpt/view?usp=sharing