Even before my eyes open, my mouth starts water­ing. The air is thick with the smell of roast­ing besan and ghee. Oh my, my moth­er is mak­ing besan laadus today. Is it my birth­day? I won­der, is it my parent’s anniver­sary? I roll over and sniff the air. 

But the smell is gone. Just like all the oth­er fragrances.

I pic­ture my moth­er as I’ve seen her in pho­tographs tak­en before I was born. My moth­er, young and beau­ti­ful. She has glow­ing skin, large eyes, well-defined eye­brows, and a big nose — a fea­ture which I have inher­it­ed. She has very long hair, braid­ed in a plait that reach­es below her knees. I nev­er saw her hair worn like this. And I imag­ine the pho­tographs I’ve seen of tables laid out for Shab­bat prayers and din­ner at her par­ents’ home. The pol­ished brass Star of David oil lamp, lace table­cloths, plat­ters of fruit, and small cups of raisin sharbath. 

So much of my child­hood mem­o­ries are fad­ing, but the tastes nev­er do. Nei­ther do the smells, the smiles or the sor­rows. My body is the vault that holds these his­to­ries, these pre­cious mem­o­ries. They are mine and mine alone. No one else in our fam­i­ly will remem­ber the same things or remem­ber them the same way, even if they were present at the same time and place.

Here is what I remember. 

My mother’s hands are quick as she stirs the dried chan­na — split chick­peas, in the tava. From a pale yel­low, they turn to beige, to gold-brown. Then she grinds them by hand till they turn into a medi­um-fine pow­der. A few crunchy pieces remain. She adds this ground besan to a large flat-bot­tomed karahi where the ghee is already warmed and ready. Stir, stir, stir. She wipes her fore­head with the edge of her Cal­i­co sari pallav. My grand­moth­er has come to check if she is doing it right. My granny is a tough bossy woman who takes over my mother’s life after she mar­ries my father. 

It is time to shake in the sug­ar lit­tle by lit­tle. The grey­ish crys­tals are large and crunchy and not all of them melt com­plete­ly. Stir, stir, stir. Slow­ly, it is all com­ing togeth­er. The aro­ma is thick and sweet and spreads all over the house, waft­ing from our bal­cony to oth­ers, blown by the breeze down the street. The crows hang around our kitchen win­dow. Today they seem antsi­er than oth­er days. So am I, as I wait for the rit­u­als to be over. They will get their share too.

I will wait for the laadu to be ready, this gold globe that is made by their hands. I will bow my head and open my palms to receive it. A world held in their hands, then placed in mine. Heavy and earthy in my palms. Its deep and nut­ty fla­vor coats my tongue as I stand here at the edge of mem­o­ry. This is not a fig­ment of my imag­i­na­tion. It’s what makes it all real. That the joy exist­ed. That my par­ents, Ruby and Sun­ny, exist­ed, and my grand­ma Han­nah, exist­ed. That love wrapped around me like these aro­mas. That my mouth and tongue are blessed by them. Goud-goud bolah, they say in Maha­rash­tra on some Hin­du fes­ti­vals when they feed you spiky lit­tle beads of sug­ar and sesame seeds. Speak only sweet words. The wise hearts of the laadu mak­ers taught me — good thoughts, good words, good deeds. 

And what of con­tent­ment? They blessed me with that too. No mat­ter how lit­tle or how much I may have or how my sit­u­a­tion may change from year to year, I, laadu eater, bow humbly to the ones who made me who I am, who sac­ri­ficed and nev­er asked for thanks, and whom I nev­er cel­e­brat­ed enough. And I ask for their for­give­ness, for all of those things, but most of all for not writ­ing down their recipes, their mag­ic words.