It always starts with the crunch. That first, familiar snap of a wafer-thin slice of banana fried golden in coconut oil — slightly salted, maybe spiced with a hint of pepper. The kind of sound that should signal joy, or at the very least, snack-time satisfaction. But for me, it’s a trigger. One bite and my throat tightens. My eyes sting. Because no matter where I am or what I’m doing, banana chips take me straight to my grandfather’s living room — and to the last real hug I remember.
He always had a tin of them. Not a plastic packet from the store, but a proper, old steel dabba lined with newspaper, filled by hand from a vendor who came every Thursday. The chips were never too oily, always crisp, and somehow lasted weeks — though I suspected he replenished the dabba more often than he admitted. “For guests,” he’d say, but I knew they were mostly for me. He’d open the lid with a practiced wrist-flick and pass it over without saying much. We’d sit in companionable silence, me crunching through chip after chip, him watching cricket and occasionally commenting on the fielding.
The Taste of Being Loved Quietly
He wasn’t a man of grand gestures. No long phone calls. No birthday cards. But those chips? That was his love language. When I’d visit during summer holidays, the tin would already be full, waiting. It was his way of saying, “I remembered you were coming.” When I left, he’d pack some in a paper pouch, stapled shut with a level of precision only he could achieve, and tuck it into my bag with a soft “Don’t finish them on the train.” I always did.
I didn’t cry when he passed away. Not immediately. The rituals kept us moving. People came and went. There was food to serve, condolences to acknowledge. It was only a week later, when I opened the cupboard in his kitchen and saw the empty banana chip tin — clean, waiting, lid resting beside it — that something broke. I sat on the floor and wept in a way I hadn’t allowed myself to before. Not for the tin. Not even for the chips. But for everything he never said, and everything I never thanked him for.
Trying to Recreate the Magic
Since then, I’ve tried. I’ve bought chips from fancy Kerala stores. I’ve tried making them myself once — failed miserably and burned half a batch. I’ve asked relatives if they remember where he bought them. But nothing’s come close. They either lack the right salt balance, or they taste too commercial. Or maybe, I’m just chasing something I know I’ll never find again — not in taste, but in feeling.
Because it wasn’t just the chips. It was the stillness of that room. The soft whirr of the fan. The slightly bitter smell of coconut oil mixed with talcum powder and old books. The quiet safety of being near someone who asked for nothing, yet gave so much — in the form of a dabba opened just for you.
Now, Every Crunch Is a Crack
When someone offers me banana chips now, I hesitate. Not because I don’t want them, but because I know what they’ll unlock. I’ll say yes, take a bite, smile politely — and suddenly I’ll be eleven again, sitting cross-legged on his scratchy red carpet, feeling entirely seen and completely safe. It’ll make my chest hurt in a way that feels too big for the moment.
I’ve learned to accept that some foods don’t just carry flavor. They carry people. Places. Absences. A crunch that once meant company can now echo with grief. But I don’t avoid the chips. I still eat them. Because crying isn’t always about pain. Sometimes it’s about remembering with so much clarity that it spills out of your body whether you want it to or not.
A Tin That’s Still Full
I keep a tin now — not for banana chips, but for other things. Old photos. A receipt from the last train ride I took to visit him. A faded paper pouch, flattened but still carrying the faintest smell of coconut oil. It reminds me that some containers may empty, but the memory of what they held never does.
And every time I hear that telltale crunch — whether in a busy canteen or while scrolling through snacks at a store — I smile, tear up, and think: *That’s him. Still here. Still sharing.*
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.
