There’s a particular kind of peace that only arrives after the last dish is done. When the stove has cooled, the containers are back in their rightful places, the floor’s been wiped of all the cumin seeds that jumped ship, and the sponge sits like a tiny, defeated hero by the sink. That moment — quiet, a little damp, deeply satisfying — is what I’ve come to think of as closure. Not just for the meal, but for the day, the mood, the mess inside my head.
Growing up in Mumbai, our kitchen was always the warmest part of the house — physically, emotionally, spiritually. Everything happened there. Meals, arguments, gossip, group decisions about which movie to watch. But when the cooking ended, the cleaning began. And that was a shift. Less noisy, more meditative. It wasn’t glamorous, and it definitely wasn’t optional. My mother believed that no meal was complete until the kitchen was returned to stillness.
The Ritual of Reset
Cleaning the kitchen wasn’t just a chore. It was a signal. A quiet ritual that marked the end of the day’s performance. The pots were the stage, the food the act, and this — this was the curtain call. We didn’t play music or wear gloves. We rolled up our sleeves, opened the windows to let out the heat and oil, and got to work. The steel scrubber scraped at burnt bits like it was erasing something. The wipe of the counter was almost like brushing away the tension.
Sometimes my mother would hum while rinsing out tea cups. Sometimes she’d be silent. But even as a kid, I could sense the shift in her energy as she moved through the final tasks of the evening. Like she was unwinding, dish by dish. She said very little, and I learned to follow suit. There was no rush — just rhythm. Soap. Rinse. Stack. Breathe.
Closure Is in the Corners
I never understood the importance of it until I moved out. In my first apartment in Austin, the dishes piled up for days. I cooked when I felt like it, left greasy pans “to soak,” and told myself cleaning could wait. But something always felt… unfinished. The food was there, the taste was fine, but the meal never felt complete. Then one night, after a long, heavy week, I cooked a simple dal and rice. And for some reason, I cleaned the kitchen right after — wiped everything down, arranged the jars, even cleaned the stovetop properly for the first time in weeks. And as I stood there in the soft hum of the fridge, palms still damp, I felt lighter.
That was the moment I got it. Cleaning wasn’t just about hygiene. It was about restoring order. About saying, “That happened. And now it’s done.” It’s like an exhale at the end of something. A closing chapter without fanfare.
Food Is Chaos. Cleaning Is Calm.
Cooking, for all its joy and creativity, is chaos. Ingredients flying, timers ringing, spices spluttering, decisions piling up. But cleaning? That’s calm. It’s repetitive, sure, but it’s also grounding. You don’t have to be brilliant. You just have to be present. You don’t have to think — only do. One plate at a time. One spoon. One stove corner.
Even now, if I’m stressed or scattered, I find myself walking into the kitchen and doing a clean-up I don’t technically need to do. Just wiping the counter. Arranging the spice jars by no real logic except that it pleases me. And somehow, by the end of it, my shoulders have dropped. My mind feels uncluttered. Something has been put back in place — maybe not outside, but definitely inside.
The Silent Satisfaction
Nobody claps for a clean kitchen. No one posts it on Instagram. But there’s a deep, private satisfaction in switching off the lights and closing the kitchen door knowing that everything is where it should be. That whatever the day brought — a burnt curry, a brilliant biryani, a lonely bowl of instant noodles — it’s over now. The kitchen is clean. You did it. You lived today. You’re ready to begin again tomorrow.
That’s the thing about closure. It rarely arrives in big speeches or dramatic exits. Sometimes, it just looks like a quiet sink. A dry countertop. A clean ladle hanging exactly where it belongs. And that’s more than enough.
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.
