A Festival of Love: Krishna Janmashtami with Mom

Every year, when the skies turned dark with the rain-laden monsoon clouds and the air turned sweetly fragrant with the promise of fresh downpours, our home pulsated with the very spirit of Krishna Janmashtami. It was a date on the calendar, yes, but it is also a celebration of love, tradition, tithe and my mother’s spirit that was not easily extinguished and inspires me each and every day.

My mother was raised in a small household by her grandmother. Since childhood, she has been fashioned into a great cook. The financial struggles that defined her childhood might have pushed her into a rut but she received her responsibilities as a young woman with grace and determination. She mastered traditional Tamil Nadu Brahmin recipes and especially traditional Tamil festivals that filled our home with the beautiful sounds of vessels clattering in oil and spices wafting through the air.

As Janmashtami neared, the excitement in our home would swell. My mom would be in the middle, fingers dancing, the kitchen becoming a hive of activity. Among the many were two standouts: uppu cheedai and vella cheedai.

I remember making uppu cheedai with her for the first time. It was a simple but magical process. We would begin with rice flour and add a little salt, sesame seeds, and a touch of asafoetida. My mom would walk me through the stages of kneading the dough, her gentle hands instructing me on how to tell when I’d achieved perfection. Then came the fun part — rolling balls of dough and frying them until golden brown. The satisfaction of the crunch of the uppu cheedai was more than enough reward for our efforts.

Then we would focus on vella cheedai, a sweet and warm treat in our home. My mother would make jaggery syrup, its caramelized scent filling the air. We would mix it with rice flour, coconut and a pinch of cardamom and make a sticky dough that we would pat into little balls. As they sizzled, the sweet aroma filled the air, and I could barely contain my excitement at the thought of tasting the fruits of our labor.

Even with asthma, my mom never allowed her sickness to hold her back. Now, she would spend all day preparing these dishes, her determination lighting up the kitchen. “Cooking, my dear, is like life,” she used to say to me, “It takes some time, love and a dash of faith.” Those words reverberated in my heart as I observed her, her face beamed with the gratification of having made something beautiful for our family.

As evening celebration beheld, sounds of laughter and sweet notes of devotional songs would reverberate in their house. My mother would adorn the idols of Lord Krishna in colourful attire, her fingers deftly setting the flowers in his hair. Her absolute devotion to the sight glued in my memory for life.

As the just waiting hour unfolded, impatient and droopy, we would come together at the table, the aroma of scrumptious delicacies filling the air. My mom would serve each one of us with a smile on her face, the radiance of her glow as bright as the oil lamps that twinkled all around us. During those times, I felt a deep sense of belonging, a sense of our traditions that flowed together through time.

Now, going on with my own life and family, I daily miss those memories of doing that with mom. I want my kids to know the same warmth and love that she gave me. I want them to learn the recipes that embody our heritage; I want them to know that power is in persistence; and I want them to experience the happiness that comes with being together.

Mom, you are the light in my life, and the strength and the love. Without your determination and fidelity to our ways, I do not know where I would be as a woman today. You taught me more than just how to cook and for that, I am eternally thankful. I try to pass down these traditions to my children and hope to honor your memory and keep the fire burning in our celebrations.

This Janmashtami, when we must grope in the dark for those dishes together, I shall keep you in my heart. As the flickering flame dances, I will remember the laughter, the love, and the indelible bond we share. Before starting this further, thank you Mom for making each moment of this life a memorable one and thank you for being the heart of our family. You are the finest spice in my life, and always will be.