There are moments when I’m walking down the street in Austin, or in my kitchen, chopping vegetables, and suddenly, a smell hits me. It’s not a particular memory, not a face, not a place—but a feeling. The unmistakable aroma of cumin roasting in hot oil, the sharp tang of tamarind paste, the faint sweetness of coconut milk—suddenly, my body is there again, in Mumbai, in the kitchen of my childhood home. And I remember the *taste* of it all. It’s funny how the stomach has a better memory than the brain sometimes. I can’t remember the exact day, the exact year, but I remember what I was eating, who I was with, and how I felt. It’s like my stomach keeps the receipts to all the meals I’ve had, long after my brain has forgotten the details.
These food-related flashbacks don’t come from conscious effort—they come unbidden, like a forgotten song that suddenly plays on the radio. My brain might forget the day I had chole bhature in some nondescript stall in Mumbai, but my stomach remembers the crunch of the fried bread, the way the chole was just spicy enough, with a hint of sweetness, and how the coolness of the yogurt cooled everything down. It wasn’t just about the food—it was about the feeling of *being* in that moment, with the heat of the city around me, the noise, the rush, and the unmistakable joy of eating street food.
The Sensory Puzzle
Our memories are so often tied to the senses. A song can take you back to a summer night, the smell of a certain flower can remind you of a time in your life you haven’t thought about in years. And for me, food is the ultimate sensory trigger. But the funny thing is, it’s not always the “big moments” that stick. It’s the small, everyday things. The smell of onions frying, the way mustard seeds pop when they hit hot oil, the sound of curry bubbling away in a pot. Those are the things my stomach remembers, even if my brain can’t put them in the context of a specific memory. It’s like my body is holding on to experiences, cataloging them in a sensory archive, while my brain keeps getting distracted by more pressing things.
Sometimes, I’ll be cooking in my kitchen, and a smell will take me right back to my grandmother’s house. I’ll be in the middle of a conversation with my partner, and suddenly, it’s like I’m 10 years old again, standing in her kitchen watching her make dosa. I haven’t thought about that moment in years, but there it is, coming back like a whisper. It’s not a perfect memory, just a fleeting sensation, but it’s real. And it’s because my stomach remembers what my brain has forgotten.
Smell and Memory: The Connection We Don’t Always Notice
There’s a whole scientific explanation for why smell is so deeply connected to memory. Apparently, our sense of smell is directly linked to the part of our brain that processes memories and emotions. This makes sense when I think about the way certain smells can immediately take me to a particular time or place. A whiff of garam masala, and suddenly I’m back in Mumbai, in my mother’s kitchen, watching her make curry the way she’s been making it for years. Even if I haven’t tasted her curry in months, I can almost *feel* the heat of the kitchen, hear her voice in the background, and smell the warmth of the spices as they bloom in the oil.
What’s fascinating about this, though, is that I don’t always need the full memory to trigger the feeling. Just the smell of a particular spice can open up an entire emotional world. It’s not the dish, necessarily—it’s the sensation of the moment, the feeling of being grounded in a place you once knew. It’s the beauty of sensory memory—the way our bodies can remember the smallest details, even when our minds can’t. That’s the puzzle: my brain may have forgotten the specifics, but my stomach—my senses—hold on to the things that matter most.
The Foods That Stick
What I’ve realized is that the foods that stick with me the most aren’t always the fancy ones. They’re not the gourmet dishes or the Instagram-worthy plates. They’re the simple, everyday foods—the dal that’s been simmering all afternoon, the khichdi that’s both comforting and easy, the paratha that’s made just a little too crispy because I’m always in a rush. These foods might not have the glamour of a restaurant meal, but they have the power to bring me back to the most authentic, grounded moments of my life.
It’s the little things. The food that’s made when you’re just trying to get through the day. The dal tadka that my mother would serve with rice, the chappal of garlicky dal fry at my aunt’s place, the comforting hug of yogurt with a spoonful of sugar after a long day. These things aren’t fancy, but they’re the food I remember. They’re the food my stomach remembers.
Food as Time Travel
When I think back to the food I grew up eating, I realize how it’s not just about filling your stomach; it’s about filling time. Food is like a time machine. It brings you back to places you’ve forgotten, times you’ve outgrown, and moments that were too small to remember—but, somehow, they stuck. When I cook Indian food now, I’m not just cooking a meal. I’m traveling back in time, to the kitchens I’ve stood in, the people I’ve cooked for, and the warmth of a shared meal. My stomach remembers it all—long after my brain has moved on to other things.
And that’s why I keep cooking, why I keep reaching for the spices and the ingredients that have always been there, even when I can’t remember the last time I used them. Because food isn’t just about satisfying hunger—it’s about the memories it carries with it. So, I’ll keep cooking, and I’ll keep letting the smells take me back to places I didn’t know I needed to visit again.
Conclusion: When Stomach Remembers What the Brain Forgot
In the end, it’s not about remembering every detail. It’s about letting your senses take you places you forgot you needed to go. It’s about how food, especially the ones that are closest to your heart, holds onto memories in ways your mind doesn’t. So the next time a smell takes you back, don’t fight it. Embrace it. Let your stomach lead the way, because sometimes, the most important memories aren’t the ones we consciously keep—but the ones that come flooding back with every scent, every taste, and every bite.
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.
