There’s something intimate — almost conspiratorial — about chopping vegetables with your mom at 7 in the morning. The world is still groggy. The air is thick with the smell of soaked rice, a whisper of incense, and the faint hiss of the pressure cooker warming up for its daily concert. And there you are, half-awake, knife in hand, slicing okra or peeling potatoes with a person who’s already lived half a day before you even opened your eyes.
This wasn’t a daily ritual. It wasn’t even regular. But whenever I woke up early enough during school holidays or family events, I’d find myself beside her at the kitchen counter, sharing that small sliver of time before the house really woke up. It was never announced, never planned. Just a soft “Aa gaya? Good. Here — cut these.” And suddenly, I was part of the machinery.
The Quiet Language of Mornings
My mom is not a woman of long explanations. She won’t say, “We’re making baingan bharta because your uncle likes it.” She’ll just hand you the eggplant and nod at the gas stove. Mornings in her kitchen weren’t chatty. They were practical, steady, and efficient. But they were full of an unspoken warmth — the kind that doesn’t need to be declared to be felt.
There’s a special kind of bonding that happens when you’re both focused on something small. Snapping the ends off beans. Dicing onions. Sharing that one knife that always needs sharpening. Every now and then, she’d point at my chopping and mutter, “Zyada moti kat raha hai,” too thick. I’d fix it. No argument. The rules were clear here. And for once, I didn’t mind following them.
Rhythm Over Words
It wasn’t about talking. It was about rhythm. The gentle knock of the knife on the wooden board. The rustle of plastic bags reused for storing peels. The metallic clink of bangles as her wrist moved in perfect, practiced arcs. Sometimes she’d hum — old film songs, bhajans, whatever was playing in her head. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, I’d match my pace to hers.
These were moments without phones, without noise, without distraction. Just task, presence, proximity. At 7 AM, there is no performative intimacy. There’s no “quality time” agenda. It’s just the two of you doing something together that needs doing. And in that, there’s more closeness than in a dozen family dinners.
What I Learned (and What I Didn’t)
I learned how to tell a ripe tomato by feel, not look. How to skin lauki without wasting half of it. That coriander must be washed at least twice. That garlic should be smashed, not minced. But more than that, I learned how my mother moves through the world — quietly, deliberately, without applause. How she starts the day not with meditation apps or Instagram scrolls, but with hands submerged in coriander and brains already planning lunch.
It’s easy to forget the beauty of these mundane scenes. When you grow up, mornings get stolen by alarms and traffic and the microwave reheating yesterday’s sabzi. Chopping veggies becomes a task you outsource or delay or avoid altogether. But every now and then, if I’m visiting home and manage to drag myself out of bed early, I find her there — hair tied, radio on, cutting board out. Like nothing’s changed.
The Gift of the Ordinary
Looking back, some of my strongest memories of my mom don’t involve birthdays or vacations or speeches. They involve early mornings, onion tears, and the smell of curry leaves dancing in hot oil. They involve her handing me a knife like it’s a quiet invitation to step into her rhythm, just for a while.
We never took photos of those mornings. No one posted a reel about cutting okra with their mom. But if you ask me where I learned about patience, about love that’s quiet but constant, about starting the day grounded — I’d say: standing barefoot in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with her at 7 AM.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
