There’s a routine at my house in Goa that was very typical of Sunday when I was growing up. I may have written about it quite a few times and I do this only because it has stuck in my head over time and distance. Hear me out again anyway: My father would go to the market in the morning and what felt like hours later, he would come back home on his bike with bags of things at his feet. He would honk for us or my mother to come help him carry everything and the two of them would go on to cleaning fish or chicken or other meat, cooking some of the vegetables and getting food ready for lunch. It seemed like they knew exactly what they were doing. There wasn’t any meal-planning. It was improvised. My mother can confirm or deny this. We were shooed out of the kitchen by my father and over time, I myself learnt only a few of the things they did to cook the meal I miss the most when Sunday comes along….
Yesterday, I came *this* close to being in Goa again. Being near a package sent to me by my family through a friend visiting/working in Seattle for a week was my escape and even though I’m not literally there, I can breathe the curry patta (leaves) that grow from my neighbour’s compound to our top floor balcony and drop a red chilli in hot oil whenever I feel low. The homesickness has been on the uptick lately. This is the time of the year when I have a plane ticket and I’m all prepared to say “See you sucker,” to the winter. That’s not on the list this year and so, packages of dried food with amazing labels made my mother will do. They are so professional. Airport customs has nothing on her….