The call every Immigrant dreads

I got the call over the weekend. The one that every immigrant is terrified to receive. Mom is not feeling well. She is experiencing terrible abdominal pains and had to be admitted to hospital. My sister has flown down to Mumbai from Bangalore to be with her. I must stay ready to come down if the situation worsens. A certain feeling of helplessness and fear takes over. I wish I could be there right now more than anything, so I could help with the care process. However given the state of the pandemic, the need for quarantine after travel and the limited space in our two bedroom Mumbai apartment, I would only be more of a burden than a solution as of now.

This is the scourge of the immigrant. When you choose to be an immigrant, you choose to always be an outsider. There isn’t a true home for you anymore. You no longer belong in the country of your birth, but you don’t really belong in the new country you have chosen. You really don’t truly belong anymore. Perhaps this was what led me to be a chef. Through my food, I connect with where I came from Through my food, I keep my heritage alive. Through my food, I feel a sense of belonging.

At a time like this, what would I cook for Mom. I think about one of my favorite soups when I am under the weather. Ginger Cilantro Chicken Soup. Due to her gastro intestinal issues, Mom can’t handle much spice at this time.This soup is mild but flavorful and full of healing goodness. The chicken has to be bone-in, to coax out the collagen and gelatin making it truly food for the soul. If I could be in India right now, this is what I would cook for her. I know it will make her feel better.

But till that happens, I will have no choice but to stand by and wait with fingers crossed, praying for good news around the corner. I don’t believe there could be any greater reminder of how truly fleeting the moments actually are.

They say hope is not good strategy, but it’s the only one I got for now.

Comments

Alphonso: The Undisputed King of Mangoes

For most desi immigrants, travel to India happens primarily over the Christmas vacation. The work cycle and demands of the school schedule make winter pretty much the only time to visit family back home. There is one huge drawback to visiting India during this time period. You miss out on feasting on the true king of fruit; the Mango. In India, mangoes come into season Mid April and are available until the end of June. Mangoes are the true indicator that summer has finally arrived. The down side for the Desi who chose to immigrate is having to say goodbye to the pleasure of this summer delight. It was a family emergency that brought me back home at this time of the year. Being my first time visiting India in summer in 24 years, you bet I have a lot of mango catching up to do! Many will argue till blue in the face about which mango variety is the best. The Goans insist it’s the Mankurad variety while the residents of West Bengal swear by the Himsagar. But a true Mumbaikar cannot be s

Mumbai Memories of Cutting Chai

" What on earth is Cutting Chai?" Most people in America give me this incredulous look when I speak of the iconic Mumbai street food experience. I don't blame them honestly. I have the same look when Yoga Mom decked out in Lululemon asks for her "Grande nonfat chai latte extra foam with 3 pumps of caramel". I resist the urge to bury my head in my hands as she happily swipes her card for her 6 dollar mid morning pick me up. If you happen to be in the Chai Latte loving camp, I suggest you stop reading right now, as I don't wish to offend your delicate sensibilities. Please return to the article about the perfect form for the downward facing dog. Consuming chai is an integral part of being Indian. We consume on average, at least four cups of chai every day. Your morning newspaper moment is just not quite the same without it. The mid morning breather is the perfect excuse to inhale a quick cup before getting back to the tasks at hand. The four o'clock slump

Qurbaani: My understanding of Bakri Eid

Growing up in a household with a catholic mother and a muslim father gave me an edge over the other kids in school. I got to celebrate twice the number of festivals. In our house, Christmas and Easter were celebrated as fervently as Ramzan Eid and Bakri Eid. As the world celebrated Bakri Eid, also known as Eid-al-Adha earlier this week, it made me remember the time when I was a young child growing up in Mumbai, and how this festival helped me understand some of life’s most important lessons. Bakri Eid is a festival where Muslims all over the world perform the Qurbaani; the ritualistic sacrifice of an animal if they are able to. On this day, the experience of Abraham is remembered where he was called upon by God to sacrifice his son Isaac. Every year on Bakri Eid, I was told I was too young to go with him to see the Qurbaani happen. Dad would leave early in the morning with my uncles and return a few hours later with a wicker basket full of mutton parts, all cut up into pieces and layer

India Like This Only

Search This Blog