The scent of paneer butter masala filled the house that evening, rich and familiar. I followed it into the kitchen, where Amma stood stirring the gravy in her deep-bottomed kadai. The sight of her—sleeves rolled up, a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead, the spice-laden aroma dancing in the air—brought a smile to my face.
"Paneer for dinner?" I asked, pleasantly surprised. "With chapati?"
She nodded without turning. "I know it's your favorite."
My heart warmed. Moments like these reminded me that even without saying much, Amma always knew what I needed.
As I set the table, a wave of memory swept over me—of hostel mess food, watery sambar, flavorless curries, and the sinking feeling of opening a steel plate to yet another disappointing meal. The contrast between that and this heavenly aroma was jarring.
"Amma…" I started hesitantly, "Can we pack some podis and pickles for the hostel? Like paruppu podi and mango pickle?"
She looked at me, surprised but smiling. "Now you're thinking ahead."
"I just… I don't want to miss this taste. Something to remind me of home."
"We'll make them," she said, almost instantly. "And we should also plan for some healthy snacks—things that'll keep you well."
She began listing options as I grabbed a notebook. "Chikki made with jaggery and peanuts. Roasted almonds and cashews. Maybe sesame ladoos. Dry fruit mix. And some instant rava upma mix—you just need hot water."
I scribbled down everything while she finished dinner. That night, we ate warm chapattis dipped in creamy paneer, and my mind already drifted to the little jars of comfort we'd make the next day.
The next morning, the house smelled of roasted spices. I followed the trail into the kitchen and found Amma busy at the stove, her hair pinned up, measuring spoons clinking against stainless steel. I stood watching, the warmth of the scene settling into my heart.
"Come on, Nila," she said, handing me the ladle. "You wanted Paruppu Podi, right? Time to learn how to make it."
I took the ladle and stirred the toor dal in the hot kadai, its golden color deepening as it roasted. The rhythm of the task was soothing. She added chana dal next, and we roasted it slowly together, stirring and watching for the perfect aroma that told us it was done.
"Now add the red chillies," Amma instructed. "Not too long, or they'll burn."
The dried red chillies crackled in the oil. The scent was sharp, earthy, and unmistakably South Indian. We added black pepper, cumin, a pinch of hing, and a few fresh curry leaves that curled and crisped almost instantly.
Once everything cooled, Amma pulled out the old mixie jar—scratched but faithful. I helped her spoon the roasted ingredients into it and held the lid down as the blades spun into action. The aroma that escaped was intoxicating—nutty, spicy, and nostalgic.
"Here," she said, handing me a spoonful to taste.
I licked the powder off the spoon and closed my eyes. It tasted like Sundays. Like the sound of rain on the roof. Like hot rice and ghee on a steel plate. Like home.
"You can keep this for two to three months if it's in an airtight container," Amma said, scooping the powder into a glass jar. "Don't use a wet spoon. And don't keep it near the stove—it'll stay fresh longer."
I nodded, mentally filing it away.
"And remember how to eat it?" she asked with a smirk.
"With hot rice and a dollop of ghee," I replied automatically.
"And?"
"Crispy appalam or a piece of raw mango on the side," I grinned. "Or with curd rice."
After we'd finished packing the Paruppu Podi jar, Amma turned and reached for a tray of raw mangoes sitting near the window.
We moved on to the mango pickle. Amma brought out a batch of firm green mangoes and began slicing off the stalks. "The trick is to keep the seed's hard shell inside," she explained. "Makes the pieces more stable."
Together, we cut the mangoes into neat cubes and spread them on a plate to dry in the morning sun.
"No moisture," she reminded. "That's how pickles last."
Back inside, she pulled out a wide-mouthed porcelain jar and measured out six tablespoons each of salt, chilli powder, and sesame oil. Then came mustard powder, turmeric, roasted fenugreek seed powder, and hing. She stirred everything into a thick, glossy paste.
We added the dried mango pieces in small batches, mixing them well until they were coated in spice and oil.
"Just give it a stir every few days," Amma said, covering the jar with a clean cloth. "The flavors will deepen on their own."
That night, I packed the jars carefully. Paruppu podi, mango pickle, tomato pickle, dry fruits, sesame ladoos, and homemade chikki—all labeled, sealed, and wrapped in old newspapers like precious treasures.
The next day, I was woken up earlier than usual by a soft knock on my door.
"Nila Akka... Wake up," my brother whispered, peeking into my room with an excited grin. "Come cycling with me na... before it gets too hot."
I groaned and rolled over. "It's not even 6:30…"
"But you promised before school reopened!" he whined. "Please! This is our last week before you go to the hostel. You always said we'd go at least once to the bridge road."
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. His hair was messy, and he was already in his shorts and sneakers, holding my helmet like a challenge.
I smiled. "Fine, give me five minutes."
By the time we reached the narrow countryside stretch near the canal, the sun was just beginning to rise. Golden light filtered through the palm trees, the air still fresh with morning dew. We raced each other past sleepy cows and chirping mynahs, laughing and shouting like we had no cares in the world.
At the far end, we parked our cycles and sat on the stone bench near the old bridge, legs swinging.
"I'll miss this," I said quietly, watching the water ripple under the bridge. "This peace. You."
He looked away, pretending not to hear me. "You better write to me. Every week."
"Deal," I said, offering my little finger. He locked him with mine solemnly.
On the way back, he rode ahead and called over his shoulder, "Also, bring snacks when you come home next! Only Amma's podi and pickle won't do."
I laughed. "You got it. Maybe I'll smuggle some hostel ones too—you can compare and roast them."
"Ewww, no thanks!"
We raced the last stretch home, both of us pretending not to care who won. But I knew it wasn't about the cycling. It was about holding on to something, just a little longer.
When we got back, the smell of freshly fried pooris greeted us at the doorstep. I glanced at my brother, and we both dashed straight into the kitchen.
"Hot poori and potato masala?" I asked, surprised.
Amma grinned, flipping the last poori into the hot oil. "You both earned it. Breakfast's ready."
Appa had just returned from his morning badminton game with his friends and joined us at the table, a towel draped around his neck and hair still damp. He raised an eyebrow and said, "Wow, since Nila's leaving for the hostel, every meal has become a feast, is it?"
We laughed, but deep down, I knew it was true.
We sat around the table, breaking steaming pooris and scooping up the masala that Amma had made just the way I loved—spiced with green chillies, tempered with mustard seeds and curry leaves, and finished with a dash of lemon. With my first bite, I closed my eyes. The warmth of the masala, the slight crisp of the poori edges, the comfort of being home—it all sank into me at once.
Later, as Appa got ready for office, I walked up to Amma. "Amma… can we go to the temple tomorrow or the day after? Before I leave?"
She looked at me for a moment, then nodded with a soft smile. "Yes. Let's go together as a family. We'll do a small special pooja—I'll start the preparations this evening."
That afternoon, after a heavy lunch and a short nap, I found my brother curled up on the living room floor, the fan spinning on high above him. Doraemon was playing on the TV, and he was half-laughing at Nobita's newest disaster.
He shifted wordlessly to make space for me and handed me a pillow. I lay down beside him, our feet touching under the fan's breeze. We didn't talk. We didn't have to. The whir of the blades, the faint tang of mango pickle still hanging in the air, and the low buzz of the cartoon—it was all the comfort I needed.
For lunch, Amma had served hot rice with a spoonful of ghee, paruppu podi on the side, and a generous helping of mango pickle. A small steel bowl of curd rice sat next to it.
As I mixed the podi into the rice, the aroma rose up to greet me—so familiar, so deeply mine. The ghee melted in, and the spicy podi coated each grain like a warm hug. I took a bite and let the taste settle.
"This," I said, "is happiness in a spoon."
Amma, standing by the counter, smiled as she watched me eat. "That's why we made all this.