In a general fashion of navigating one’s curiosity, I, much like everyone else, often connect the dots backwards to comprehend the instances that made food a central character in my life. Beginning with questions like – Is my nani a great cook? Yes. Did I sit on the kitchen slab next to her, invariably taking in lessons of cooking that no one actively taught me? Not really. Does my mother, a botanist, enjoy cooking? Hell no. Then how did this invisible trait get passed down and find its way to nurture me? To start with why, to go into the depths of one’s curiosities and find a hidden flame that is bequeathed to you, for you to become a purveyor of a certain heritage – is the way to navigate familial relationships, to find something common to bond over, to connect beyond lineage.
Like a jar of green chutney – a concoction made by blitzing equal amounts of coriander and mint, a pinch of salt, cumin, half a raw mango, and a few green chillies – the most usual sight in all refrigerators of the multiple houses I visited as a kid. All of them green, all of them different.
The combination of ingredients might be the same, but the quantities, mood, and lack of deliberate passing down of recipes allow for individual imagination to thrive. Traditionally, inheritance of any kind is passed down linearly from one generation to another based on the assumption that all following generations preserve it with the same appreciation. This inheritance is a way to establish a relationship and add meaning and value to a thing of the past so that it can be preserved for the future. How does one explain reasons for affinity to something (cooking, in my case) if not by looking into their pasts? I remember my nana making the most delicious chai every morning, served with mathri which melted in the mouth if you sipped your chai slowly. And my badi nani’s (great-grandmother’s) arbi. And my nani’s aloo pyaaz ki sabzi. I remember tasting them and somehow learning without them ever trying to teach me.
There was no recipe for me to follow, with steps laid out one after the other. My cousin’s grandmother asked her six-year-old granddaughter to document everything she cooks or wants to cook—almost catapulting food to the next generation. If something similar had happened to me, how would it have shaped my relationship with cooking? Establishing a relationship with a discipline, then, involves a certain care, thoughtfulness, and intentionality – to give importance to an activity, to establish a connection, and to have someone carry it forward.
However, I was looking in all the wrong places. In this case, the linearity of passing down, the assumption that it travels only across disciplines, restricted my imagination. To find validation for my curiosities, I looked at cooking as if it were an isolated act – as if it were only through the act of cooking that I could learn cooking. But, I have come to know better that cooking is not only what happens on a stovetop; it is also what happens on the farms, the streets, and the mandis.
Coming to this realization was not as straightforward as one might think. When we moved into a house with a barren garden, my mother took over the job of reviving it—mostly through mulching with discarded sugarcanes and wood scrapings. Small grass slowly took over, with two or three mushrooms fruiting here and there—a sign of regeneration. As an observer, I was amazed to see how casually she brushed off the signs of grass. Instead, she planted mint all over the garden.
The fragrance of this invasive species was hard to miss. And even though, I was excited to have access to fresh mint all the time, her decision to plant it piqued my curiosity. I have seen all of my mother’s gardening phases – from flowering plants to bonsai, to creating a terrarium-like ecosystem, to growing vegetables, to now focusing on soil. It turns out that mint is a great cover crop – it retains moisture, is a natural pesticide, and acts as a pollinator. I discovered that mint was not just a kitchen staple for me but a practical cover crop for her. My lens is food; her lens is flora. This fragrant herb became a metaphor for the common ground we unknowingly shared.
I never fully understood her relationship to the land, the energy she exuded when her hands were deep in the soil. And I guess she never truly enjoyed cooking, but through our respective connections, we borrowed from each other — we started appreciating, learning, and valuing both acts more. So the answers don’t always reside in the past; sometimes, it is actively cultivated in the present, revealing new connections that enrich our relationships with people and our surroundings.
This house also had a green jar and a large patch of mint in our front yard.
