“Now, Sanjana, pay close attention,” her grandfather would say as he stood over the stove, expertly stirring a bubbling pot of fish curry. Sanjana’s eyes would be fixed on the sizzling pot.
“But how do you know when it’s done?”
“Ah, that’s the secret,” he’d chuckle. “You’ll know by the aroma. When it fills the air and makes your stomach rumble, that’s when it’s ready.”
Sanjana’s grandfather was a culinary maestro. His claim to fame was his scrumptious fish curry, a dish he lovingly prepared every Sunday in his cozy Mangalore home. Sanjana would often stand by, wide-eyed, as he expertly blended spices and let the fish simmer in coconut milk. Those sumptuous meals were always accompanied by his captivating stories and hearty laughter.
The aroma of his cooking lingered vividly in her memory but one of her most treasured activities with her grandfather was their leisurely strolls through their vast cashew farm. “Sanjana, do you see this tree?” he’d asked once, pointing to a towering cashew tree with branches heavy with fruit. “It’s been in our family for generations. These cashews are special, just like you.”
Sanjana would look up at him with wonder. “Why are they special, Grandpa?”
“Because they connect us to our roots,” he’d replied. “Just like these trees, our family’s history is deeply rooted in this land.”
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