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A 'Handful' of Rice

 


Mindful Musing… Missing my ‘Amma’ and ‘Maami’. If they were still here, they would still find every little chance to feed me, just like they always did.

In our small village home, life was simple—but it was full. The house stood quietly under a zinc roof that sang loudly whenever the rain came. Its brick-and-wooden walls held the warmth of our laughter, our struggles, and the little moments that made everything meaningful.

We were lucky too—to have a big house by village standards, with a beautiful compound around it. It wasn’t just built overnight… it was built inch by inch by my dad, with us beside him—his little helping hands, passing bricks, mixing cement and even helping with plastering walls and laying tiles. We felt so proud, being part of something that slowly became our home. That house wasn’t just a place we lived in; it was something we built together.

At the heart of it all was my mother.

I am proud of my Tamil heritage. Growing up, meals were never just about eating. Amma would gently mix everything together—rice, curry, a touch of love in every handful—and feed us with her hands. It wasn’t just food; it was comfort, care, and connection.

We didn’t have much in terms of luxury, but we had everything that mattered. Five… sometimes all six of us would gather around her as she cooked. There were no dining tables or formal settings—just the floor, the aroma of freshly made food, and the quiet excitement of being together. We would sit close, watching her every move, waiting for our turn, laughing, talking, and simply being.

And in between it all, she gave us more than just food.

Sometimes, she would tell us stories—little tales that amazed us, carried us far beyond our small world, and made our eyes widen with wonder. Other times, she would hum or sing in her melodious voice, soft and soothing, filling the home with a kind of peace only she could create. And always, there was her smile—warm, gentle, and reassuring—the kind of smile that made everything feel safe and whole.

Those moments weren’t grand, but they were everything.

The sound of the ladle against the pot, the warmth of the food in our hands, the way she would look at us to make sure we had enough—those are the memories that stayed. In that home, under that humble roof, she gave us more than meals. She gave us a sense of belonging, of love that needed no words.

Now, when I cook for my own children, those memories come rushing back. I see her in my hands, in the way I mix the food, in the care I try to give. Life has a beautiful way of coming full circle.

What once nourished me is now nourishing them—not just their body, but their heart too.




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