I inherited my big nose from my grandfather and my asthma from my dad. My love of dance from my mom and sweet tooth from my dad. My paati (grandma) loves cooking. She cooks with a sixth sense — heart. She makes me my favorite kathrikai (eggplant) each visit and if I were a stranger, she would make me kathrikai that tasted just the same. She is legally blind; she relies not on measurement in her cooking but smell, touch, love, spice. But I don’t like to cook. It takes me too long and I need measurements. I’m not generous. My toast tastes different for each relationship I have. Burnt, too light, rarely just right. I rely on pre-planned precision, measurement and recipes guiding me through every step, but my paati cooks with an array of ingredients and spontaneity that speak from her heart.
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Recipe: Age 8
-Hang up clothes on drying rack.
Not tall enough.
-Play catch.
With siblings. With neighbors. With friends. But be back in an hour.
-Dance.
You love to dance. But classes are much too expensive.
-Sing.
You love to sing. Your mom is a beautiful violinist.
-School.
Nothing less than first rank.
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Recipe: Age 9
-Hang up clothes on drying rack.
Not tall enough. But who else to do it.
-School.
Nothing less than first rank.
-Take care of babies.
Your siblings. Your mother passed away. You must start helping.
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Recipe: Age 17
-Hang up clothes on drying rack.
-Cook.
You should have already learned how to cook by now.
-Wash dishes.
-Clean.
-Wash clothes.
-Sweep floor.
-School
Nothing less than first rank. But no more school after this. You need to get married. But you always got first rank. You topped your class every year. You would have continued to excel. Continued to create, achieve, imagine, discover.
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Recipe: Age 21
-Hang up clothes on drying rack.
-Cook.
-Cook.
-Cook.
This is your creation, imagination, and discovery. You are so good at it.
-Wash dishes.
-Cook.
-Take care of baby.
Your baby.
-Take care of baby.
Not your baby, but the other ones too.
-Clean.
-Wash clothes.
-Sweep floor.
-Ask if anyone wants chai.
-Ask if anyone wants food.
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Recipe: Age 43
-Hang up clothes on drying rack.
-Cook.
-Cook.
-Cook.
-Wash dishes.
-Cook.
-Take care of baby.
Your second baby. Your first one is 22. She’s moving to America. She’s starting her life. You told her to get her education. You told her to be financially stable so that she could provide for herself.
-Clean.
-Wash clothes.
-Sweep floor.
-Ask if anyone wants chai.
-Ask if anyone wants food.
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Recipe: Age 71
-Hang up clothes on drying rack.
You take in the California sun as you gently place each item on the backyard chair.
-Cook.
We have guests coming. You can’t wait to cook your famous rasam.
-Cook.
You try something new. A new dessert. Made vegan for your granddaughter.
-Cook.
You don’t take tastes in between. You know we will love it. But you know your daughter has been telling you to use less salt. Because we need to be healthier. So you take a taste. But it’s just not the same without the salt. You add the salt.
-Cook.
Your favorite way to show love.
-Wash dishes.
Your son-in-law begins. But you want to help. You love the time together.
-Take care of baby.
Your grandbabies. Your first one is 20. She’s in college. She’s starting her life. You told her to get her education. You told her to be financially stable so that she could provide for herself. You told her to follow her passion for reading, writing, art, learning. Your second one is 17. You told him to get his education. You told him to never lose his love for music. Your third one is 13. You live, laugh, play and love with her, admiring her pencil sketches with squinted eyes through your magnifying glass.
-Clean.
You walk to your favorite rooms of the house, cleaning as you go. Fighting us every time we tell you that you should rest.
-Ask if we all want chai.
Your granddaughter brings her oat milk for you to make your special chai. She watches, asking you to teach her everything you know so she can be independent in college. But she knows her chai will never be the same.
-Ask if we all want food.
-Take a nap.
You listen to your favorite prayer as you drift off, your eyes tired but your heart filled with satisfaction as you remember how much your babies loved your kathrikai.
-Phone call.
Your best friend from India. Your favorite cousin. Your daughter. You can’t wait to see them when you go back in the summer.
I inherited my paati’s recipes; her memories occupy my imagination. They may not shine through me with physical attributions, like the bump on the bridge of my nose that tells of my grandpa’s love for travel. They may not be as evident as my dad’s asthma that plagues me in the winter. But I know they exist within me, reminding me every day that I must continue to protest so that I may create something bigger than myself. I’ve been blessed with a life that allows me to rebel explicitly — one that not only allows but challenges me to fight the system, yet resists my strikes when I forget that it was my paati’s sacrifices and lifetime of implicit rebellion, biting her tongue, feeding her family — that paved the way. So I start to make the kathrikai, FaceTime ringing and a million questions on my mind that I know my paati will answer.