My Mother’s Hands Still Cook in My Kitchen

My Mother’s Hands Still Cook in My Kitchen

The first time I tried to replicate my mother’s chicken curry after her passing, I stood in the kitchen staring at the spices like they were foreign objects. It wasn’t the complexity of the dish that made my hands tremble—it was the silence. The silence where her voice should have been, guiding me. No sound of bangles clinking as she stirred the pot, no gentle scolding when I added too much chili. Just me, a wooden spoon, and a memory that refused to sit still.

My mother’s hands were small, always warm, always working. They peeled, stirred, rolled, kneaded. Those hands taught me how to break cardamom pods, how to feel for the right dough consistency without looking, and how to cup rice so it cooked just enough for everyone at the table. But more than that, they built a home. Every meal was a story. Every roti, a comfort. Every curry, a connection to something older, something sacred.

After she died, I couldn’t step into the kitchen for weeks. The air felt thick with loss. Her apron still hung behind the door, stained with turmeric and time. Her spice tins were untouched, still arranged in the circle she liked—cumin, coriander, turmeric, chili, mustard seeds, and cloves. I couldn’t bring myself to move them. It felt like erasing her.

But grief is funny. It doesn’t knock—it just walks in and rearranges everything you thought you understood about love and memory. Some days it sat on my chest like an old quilt, heavy but familiar. Other days, it boiled over like unattended milk. What surprised me most was how it followed me into the smallest rituals. Brushing my hair reminded me of the way she untangled mine. Folding laundry took me back to her humming as she ironed my school uniform. But the kitchen—oh, the kitchen was its own battlefield.

Eventually, necessity pulled me back. Hunger has a way of demanding action even when your heart isn’t ready. I decided to make her lentil soup. It was a humble dish, one she often made on quiet evenings after a long day. Nothing fancy—just red lentils, onions, garlic, tomatoes, and the ever-present tempering of cumin seeds in hot ghee. But I could hear her voice so clearly: “Let the cumin crackle, beta. Not burn. That’s the whole flavor.”

I cried while slicing the onions. Not because they stung my eyes, but because it felt like her hands were guiding mine. My movements weren’t perfect, but they weren’t entirely mine either. They were borrowed—no, inherited—from her.

As the aroma filled the kitchen, something shifted. The silence wasn’t so loud anymore. I imagined her sitting by the counter, watching, approving. Maybe even reaching out to adjust the flame. That night, I didn’t eat alone. I sat with her memory, my grief, and a bowl of soup that tasted remarkably like hers.

Now, months later, I cook often. Not because I need to eat—but because it's how I keep her close. I find her in the sizzle of mustard seeds, in the rhythm of kneading dough, in the soft hum I sometimes realize I’m singing without knowing. She lives in the way I fold samosas, in the careful placement of pickles on the side of the plate, in how I never forget to add fresh coriander at the end.

My daughter, all of six, has begun to notice. “Why do you always kiss your fingers after touching the rice?” she asked one day. I smiled. “Nani used to do that. It’s how I say thank you.” She nodded solemnly, and the next day, I caught her mimicking the gesture with flour on her nose and a giggle in her voice.

That’s the thing about love passed through kitchens—it doesn’t end. It simmers. It stains. It seasons generations.

Grief hasn’t left me. I don’t expect it ever will. But it has softened. It no longer scorches. It blends, like a slow-cooked curry where every ingredient has time to settle, to deepen. My mother is gone, yes—but her hands still cook in my kitchen. Through me. Through tradition. Through the laughter of my daughter as she learns to roll her first misshapen roti.

I sometimes wonder if my mother knew how deeply rooted she was in all these little rituals. If she understood that every meal she made was a lesson in love. Not just the food, but the act—the gathering, the serving, the watching with pride as others filled their plates. That was her magic. And now, it is mine.

Every time I open the spice tin, I whisper a thank you. Not just for the flavor—but for the way she still lives, quietly, gently, lovingly, in every grain, every stir, every bite.

Because my mother’s hands still cook in my kitchen.

And I pray they always will.