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A mother draws a beautiful analogy that compares her relationship with her son to the tangy flavours of rasam.
I made tomato rasam yesterday which reminds me of my childhood and taste of my mother’s wonderful cooking. Every time I make rasam, I try to mimic my mother’s recipe to get the same taste. Even though what I make tastes good, it certainly isn’t my mother’s rasam. Cooking is one thing that keeps her memory alive within me, even though I miss her everyday. The sweet nurturing memory that I get from drinking this rasam, got me thinking of how the relationships around me nourishes me, especially the one I have with my son.
I compare my relationship with my son to rasam. There are times when the flavors of his and my emotions are in balance, me a calm mother and he a happy child- A perfect cup of warm love for my soul. There are times when balance is tipped, just like how I cannot make the rasam taste the same everyday. On some days it is a bit spicy, especially if I had a tough day at work, some days it is just plain bland reflecting my own tiredness in enjoying his company. There are times when this liquid of love boils over with high energy play, laughter and cheer all around. Oh, what a delight it is to swim in this dynamic, ever evolving ever challenging relationship! I can’t believe my luck on having landed in such a sweet spot in my life.
I certainly want this love, this comfort food for my soul to spill over into all aspects of my life, be it enjoying myself as a wife, daughter, daughter-in-law or a working woman.
More often than not I am overwhelmed juggling so many things at once and I feel completely battered at the end of the day. Now I realize that no matter how hard my day has been, no matter how I tired I am there is always that warm cup of rasam waiting for me both figuratively and literally.
As I said, even though I try to mimic my mother’s love for me just like her rasam, I know I am inventing my own version of rasam for my son. Hopefully, when he grows up he can remember our love as he sips on a warm cup of rasam comforting both his soul and stomach.
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Neena was the sole caregiver of Amma and though one would think that Amma was dependent on her, Neena felt otherwise.
Neena inhaled the aroma that emanated from the pan and took a deep breath. The aroma of cumin interspersed with butter transported her back to the modest kitchen in her native village. She could picture her father standing in the kitchen wearing his white crisp kurta as he made delectable concoctions for his only daughter.
Neena grew up in a home where both her parents worked together in tandem to keep the house up and running. She had a blissful childhood in her modest two-room house. The house was small but every nook and cranny gave her memories of a lifetime. Neena’s young heart imagined that her life would follow the same cheerful course. But how wrong she was!
When she was sixteen, the catastrophic clutches of destiny snatched away her parents. They passed away in a road accident and Neena was devastated. Relatives thronged her now gloomy house and soon it was decided that she should be married off.
Being a writer, Nivedita Louis recognises the struggles of a first-time woman writer and helps many articulate their voice with development, content edits as a publisher.
“I usually write during night”, says author Nivedita Louis during our conversation. Chuckling she continues,” It’s easier then to focus solely on writing. Nivedita Louis is a writer, with varied interests and one of the founders of Her Stories, a feminist publishing house, based in Chennai.
In a candid conversation she shared her journey from small-town Tamil Nadu to becoming a history buff, an award-winning author and now a publisher.
Nivedita was born and raised in a small town in Tamil Nadu. It was for schooling that she first arrived in Chennai. Then known as Madras, she recalls being awed by the city. Her love-story with the city, its people and thus began which continues till date. She credits her perseverance and passion to make a difference to her days as a vocational student among the elite sections of Madras.
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