Damn, it's been a while since my last post... That's life, making shit busy just like before, haha.
So here's something I wrote about a month or so ago. I've been working on editing and what not. This is pretty close to where I want it to be, so I figured why the fuck not post it now?
This was... a fairly difficult piece to write. I've tried writing a full on memoir about this only once before, and it failed quite miserably. I think this time around, after a lot of thinking and self-exploration, it turned out a bit better... But I'm not one to judge, that's up to those who read this. Oh, and if you weren't aware, the asterisks represent scene changes.
If you have any feedback, I'd love to hear it.
I was sitting at our dining room table, the white tablecloth impossibly clean and stain-free. I blankly stared at one of the beautiful white flowers woven into the covering, trying to decide what type of flower it was. My mother's voice broke my meaningless thoughts. “Sweta, dinner is ready. Come in here to get it.” She beckoned for me to come to the kitchen in Bengali.
“Yeah, Mom. I'm coming.”
I didn't realize that she had cooked chicken-in-the-oven. I simply started at my plate. For some reason, my mind was not working in sync with my muscles, and the command to pick up the dish and bring it over to the dining table was not following through.
It had been about three years since I had last eaten it. Three years since the original chef of the recipe had passed on.
***
Wow. I've been in my room studying for like, what three hours now? I really need to get a life… I thought to myself as I grasped the shiny brass doorknob to the entrance of my room. My “break” from all my homework-ing was a venture into our kitchen to get a chilled bottle of Martinelli's Apple Juice. Just as I opened the door, a wave of spices and heat hit me. Ah, Babo must be cooking chicken-in-the-oven, haha. Only when my father cooked did the scent in and surrounding the kitchen become so overwhelming, and the only time my father cooked he made his “specialty,” chicken-in-the-oven.
I wandered into the kitchen, slinking past my father who was standing over the stovetop preparing his marinating concoction. He was wearing a white V-neck T-shirt, light blue shorts, and a silly cream-colored apron sporting the word “CHEF” in deep, blue block letters. The apron was much too small for his tall, lean frame; it was meant for someone more along my mother's petite figure.
When I reached our old GE refrigerator, I tried, as silently as possible, to pull open the fridge door, spot, and grab my bottle of apple juice. I shut the door as gently as I could, but, as always, it loudly swung shut. My father, slightly surprised, turned towards my direction at the sound. “Oh! I didn't even hear you come in!”
The sight of my father amused me. The front of his white t-shirt was so different from the back that it was difficult to believe it was the same article of clothing. Yellow stains from the turmeric powder of the chicken marinate was splattered about in a randomly dispersed pattern, continuing in some places onto the cream front of the apron. His bifocals were fogged from the steam of a pan of water that was boiling on the stovetop.
“Heh, yeah… I just came in to grab something to drink.”
“Oh, well, why don’t you come and help me for a bit? It might do you some good to take a break from studying, you know. And I sure could use some help.”
To be honest, I was really not in the mood to have my father bossing me around, telling me to add this to that or put this over there. I just wanted to escape back to the refuge of my small, dark room. “Maybe some other time, Babo? I'm feeling kinda tired.”
“Oh… Well that's okay. Go rest. I'll see you later,” he said back to me. He turned back around to his workstation, focusing on wrapping the oven-safe glass dish with silver aluminum foil.
I wasn't entirely sure, but I thought I sensed the slightest nuance of sadness in his reply. I decide not to pay too much attention to it. I made my way back across the kitchen and hallway into my room, clutching onto the small, apple-shaped bottle of juice I had come to retrieve. When I reached my room, I firmly shut the white, wooden door behind me.
***
Again, my mother's voice broke my train of thought. “Sweta, did you hear me? Go sit and bring your plate. You can start. I'll join you in a minute or so.”
This time the order from my brain transmitted to the rest of my body. I picked up the plate and waked over to the table, slowly sinking back into my chair.
I felt strange for some reason. I didn't know what it was, but something about the meal was bothering me. I took the silver spoon from the side of my plate and hesitantly put a bit of the sauce, Basmati rice, and chicken fusion into my mouth. I chewed and thought. It was a delicious meal, no doubt. But it just wasn't the same. The mix of spices was too refined, honed to perfection by my mother's sharp palette. There was no randomness or mish-mash of taste like the dish was meant to have. Even the way the food was arranged on the plate was just too neat; it wasn't sloppy enough.
“Is something wrong Sweta?” My mother's voice brought me back to reality.
“No. Everything’s… Actually, something is bothering me, Mom…”
“What’s the matter?”
I wasn’t sure how to explain to my mother what exactly was bothering me. To tell the truth, I had trouble explaining it to myself. I decided the best way was to just say what I was thinking, no superfluous details attached. “Mom, do you ever feel guilty about not spending enough time with Babo?”
She seemed a bit taken aback at first. Her reaction was clearly visible on her face; I could see the shock transmitting through her brain. Then, the austerity on her face slowly diminished. Her usually harsh face softened and her dark brown eyes took on a gentler look. “Oh, Sweta… Shona, you should not say such things. Why would you say something like that?”
“I just feel like I didn’t do enough. I wasn’t the daughter he deserved. I didn’t give him enough of my time, did I?”
Her face filled with sentiment as she thought of a way to respond. “That’s not true. He knew how busy you were. He was proud of you for being such a hard worker. He knew you loved him very much.”
For some reason, I believed her. Although her reply was brief, the verbal manifestation from someone else of what I knew deep in my mind and heart was exactly the kind of reassurance I needed. She helped me realize that although I may not have been able to give my father as much time as I wanted or as much time as he deserved, I dealt with the situation that I had as best as I could and he loved me for it.
I reverted back to the present and looked back down at my plate. The dish was not the same; it never could or would be. Still, it was not bad, simply different. I took another bite of my chicken and rice mixture, however, this time I did not eat with discomfort or sadness. I simply ate.
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