Later, as the house filled with light and laughter, my identity wavered once more before the mirror. Seema had found Dadi’s old trunk, a chest so large it seemed to hold the world within it. Together, we unearthed treasures—Mom’s wedding lehengas, dupattas adorned with gota and gold thread, stitched by Dadi’s own hands. One of these dupattas, rich with age and beauty, was draped over me. Seema fussed and adjusted, her laughter ringing softly as she transformed me. When I turned to the mirror, it caught me unguarded.
The reflection was both familiar and foreign. The gold glinted in the dim light, the fabric shimmering like a memory of my mother as a bride. For a fleeting moment, I thought, Could I be this bride? The thought startled me, sent a shiver down my spine and a smile to my lips. I saw in myself not just possibility but a quiet truth, one that hovered on the edge of understanding. Chinky Didi and Pinky Didi were kind to me that Diwali. Though their lives seemed to orbit another realm—one of adolescent dreams and whispered futures—they noticed my efforts. ‘The house looks beautiful,’ Chinky said softly, her hand brushing my shoulder. Pinky added, ‘You’ve been such a good assistant to Mamiji.’ Their words were simple, but they carried weight. They saw the sadness I tried to bury beneath the festivities, and in their acknowledgement, I found solace.
Failure loomed large in the backdrop of that year, casting shadows over moments of light. Yet, in the kitchen, in the layers of simplicity that Panditji elevated to sophistication, I found a different kind of strength. The act of cooking became a metaphor for resilience, for crafting abundance from what little one has. Panditji’s meals reminded me that the simplest things—dal, sukhi sabzi, a puffed chapatti—can carry the depth of love and the heft of history.
Diwali night glowed with more than lamps. The house, radiant in its adornments, seemed to breathe with life. Bua, resplendent in her saree, her jasmine-scented braid trailing over her shoulder, lit sparklers with a quiet joy. Papa’s laughter rumbled as he indulged in Panditji’s sweets, laddoos golden and fragrant, kheer rich with saffron. Beneath the guava tree, the shadows of the night flickered and danced, and for a moment, the fractures of our family felt healed.
But the mirror still whispered. It called me back to its quiet truths, to the dupatta draped across my shoulders, to the questions I could not yet voice. My reflection, both bride and groom, both familiar and strange, held within it a world I was just beginning to navigate. As the year wore on, the questions within me did not fade. They settled instead, like sediment in a stream, shaping the flow of my thoughts. In the kitchen, Panditji continued to teach me—not just the art of food but the art of living. ‘Strength,’ he said one morning as he kneaded dough, ‘is knowing what to hold on to and what to let go of. It’s in the balance.’ His words became a compass, guiding me through the maze of my identity.
My cousins Chinky and Pinky remained my quiet champions. Though their own lives were blooming in directions I couldn’t yet follow, they offered their presence like a steady hand. On evenings when my failures felt too heavy to carry, they lightened the load with a joke, a compliment or simply their company. From them, I learnt that grace is not about being flawless but about being present, about finding beauty in the effort.
And Dadi, in her wisdom, continued to remind me that love is not a finite thing. ‘It flows,’ she said, her voice firm but kind. ‘Like water. It moves where it’s needed but never runs out.’ Her words held me together when I felt I might unravel, when the mirror’s murmur grew too loud.
That twelfth year, for all its failures and fears, became a turning point. Through food, family and love, I began to understand that my identity was not something fixed. It was a tapestry, woven from the threads of those who shaped me— Panditji’s lessons, Bua’s tenderness, Chinky and Pinky’s grace, Dadi’s wisdom, and my mother’s quiet strength. The kitchen became my sanctuary, the mirror my guide and the love that bound our family my anchor.
In life’s flux, I learnt, there is grace. In its chaos, there is clarity. And in its unanswered questions, there is always the quiet promise of something more.
Read an interview with the author, Suvir Saran here
Published – December 05, 2025 12:02 pm IST