I can’t say I love you sometimes, so I hope the food I got you will say it for me.
If you let me sit on the kitchen platform swinging my feet telling you about my day while you squeeze a lemon on your dish, I know you love me. If you share your last slice of pizza with me after you craved it the whole day, I know you love me. If you order 2 of whatever you’re getting whenever we’re together, I know you love me.
I know food is a synonym for love.
I know this because everyone around me loves me in its language. When I think of my favourite moments with people, or the exact time I knew I fell in love with their being, I remember it was over food. I know this because of the garlic bread from Chicago Pizza on my bed waiting to welcome me before I even get to the room because I told my roommate I was tired. Because of the Murku and Thatta practically forced down my mouth when I skipped 2 meals in the day. Because of the extra iced tea purchased mindlessly even when I said I probably wouldn’t want it. The cookie, the Pocky Pocky and the Toblerone split exactly in three parts between my best friends and me without having to ask. I know I am home.
That’s enough love, right?
When mom sees me sobbing on bright, happy afternoons, instead of inquiring why her daughter is in absolute shambles, she just brings me sliced apples. She feeds them to me with her hands and it takes me back to toddlerhood. That’s the safety I need to be reminded of, and also her way of saying she cares. “Are they juicy enough? Should I get you watermelon too?” She loves me. Papa sneaks a Snickers bar onto my desk at home every other day when I’m visibly red with stress. No, he doesn’t leave any notes; it’s just that one chocolate – consistently found on the top of my pile of papers- consistently making me smile. He loves me so much. My favourite Aloo Puri waits for me at home the minute I return after a long time away. Dadi plans the menu for the whole of next month knowing I’m going to be home. She will cook me all my favourite recipes, force another puri onto my plate and she won’t stand for any resistance. She loves me. My brother, as territorial and possessive of food as his life, may fight me for it but he is also the first one to order in McDonald’s if he notices I’m down. Yes, he uses my bank account to pay for it but he knows my order by heart. He just generously adds in a chocolate muffin from time to time. He loves me. My sister takes me on Boba dates when I visit her in Singapore, we share Laksa and eat our feelings together, watching sisterhood grow on us every day. She loves me.
I’ve been having a bad day in college for months at this point. But Arohi brings me food from the tuck shop intermittently. The variety includes Senor Pepito, Lays, Maggi and on days she feels rich- protein bars. She usually stands above my head and screams “Shh! Eat it! I got it for you!” And ofcourse I melt, silently accepting, no matter what it is that’s been aching me. I hope she knows how grateful I am when I silently hand her a donut after class, or when I intentionally make extra Wai-Wai. Her family baked me a whole box of cake. She feeds me a multitude of fascinating Bangalore-only snacks when she senses even a hint of distress on my face. She loves me. Shaunak throws out names of random food places in Delhi we should try out, and even after we all shrug in laziness, he decides to cook dinner for us anyway. If watching someone you care about create delicious meals isn’t home, what is? If laughing in the kitchen with people that know your flavour palette like the back of their hand, isn’t comfort, what is? He asks: “Wanna split a brownie? How about Amul for dessert?” when he notices I’ve been silent on the dinner table. He shows up with a packet of Hide-and-Seek when I need a friend the most. He loves me.
Arjun, back home, will give up on his Gajalee prawn fantasies for vegetarian places when we meet. Yes, I’ll never hear the end of it, but because it’s me, he’ll do it over and over again anyway. He gets me Reese’s cups from LA because I mentioned once in fleeting that it’s my favourite chocolate. He loves me. Krisha and Kiara get me Madras Cafe idlis and homemade Sushi when I’m having a series of mental breakdowns. They feed me popcorn when I’m weeping while watching Disney movies. We have shared more tiffins than we have memories, and we have spent some of our favourite meals together. They love me so much. Tarun came all the way to the other end of Mumbai just because I vouched for 145 Cafe being the best food I’ve ever had. He let me introduce him to all my favourite foods and make them his. Every time he eats Kirti college vada pav he now smiles remembering me. He has cooked his comfort food on call with me. He loves me.
The most unexpected friendships, and the best ones, start over sharing food in RH pantries. That left-over birthday cake message to everyone on the dorm floor, the stranger whose 2am heated biryani you shared on an unassuming night, the special chai that you and your best friend bond over on cold, lazy days sitting out in the mess lawns, are these not the most intimate moments you can experience? It’s magical because I feel things with the same intensity as when I first experienced them when I smell flavours. The elusive vanilla in Chai Shai takes me back to the bakery I visited with my 4-year-old cousin. His enraptured smile as he pointed at cupcakes flashes into my mind. Pesto reminds me of the songs we sang on stay-in cooking nights when college food was boring. The lingering of home on my taste buds feels like a strong enough motivation to get through the toughest of days. Every flavour reminds me of at least someone I love very deeply. I know that when I’ll be cooking alone at night in my apartment at a distant point in the future, I will chuckle to myself. The aromas will feel like a very familiar embrace, and I will remember that as long as food exists, I won’t be lonely. Food will be a best friend, a home, and my token way of starting a conversation with people I want to love.
Endearing isn’t it? How someone can offer you food, and you can reply with “I love you too”.
They love you so silently, but I think it is the loudest declaration there is.
Edited by: Lavanya Goswami.