Mother’s Day will always coincide with the time we abruptly lost Chunnu mamu, my mom’s youngest brother, to the spring 2021 COVID-19 surge in India. Every family has “the cool uncle” and he was mine – he talked to me about music, endearingly called me “Ani,” made me read Twilight at an age when I thought kissing was gross, and drove around town trying to find a field for me to run around.
I haven’t written more than a few sentences about him in the past two years. I tend to use the notes app like a diary, but when I scroll up, I drone on and on about eventful weekends and my high school cross country races, yet I only wrote this about him:
It’s cliche to say “food is my love language,” but it is, and Chunnu mamu understood it as well as my mother does. We zoomed across Patna on the back of his motorcycle just for my favorite chicken corn soup, followed by a trip to the bookstore for a Nancy Drew novel. He picked us up from the Delhi airport as if there was no food within 50 miles, grinning as he presented tiffins of neatly arranged rotis, okra, potatoes, and pickles. Any time we passed by a roadside nariyal pani (coconut water) stall, he asked if I wanted some. (When it’s 100 degrees, the answer is always an eager nod.) The last time we were in the same room, he set the table: chicken lollipop, boondi raita, chaat.
In the days after he passed, I tried my best to occupy my mind and my hands, so I spent a lot of time cooking. In hindsight, I’m surprised that I so willingly labored away in the kitchen. I knew nobody would have much of an appetite, yet I distracted myself with the pasta machine my friends gifted me for my birthday. Maybe I’d be left with mountains of uneaten, bouncy, and thick handmade pasta, yet I dutifully kneaded and rolled and cut. I silently handed my mother a pesto-laden bowl—my way of saying, “I’m right here. Have you eaten yet?” She took a bite and said it was great, but she wasn’t in the mood. Understandable.
I walked to the farmers’ market, managed to cry only once on the way, and bought pink oyster mushrooms and sunchokes. When I got home and started making mushroom toast, my mom was talking to her brother, the one who lives in New Jersey. I don’t remember what they were saying, but it was probably one of the few things that could be said. He was the youngest. The kindest. I still overhear my mother expressing the “what ifs” over the phone—what if he accessed a ventilator earlier, what if his diabetes further complicated his case, what if his job didn’t depend on in-person interactions.
As I slowly ate my fancy pink mushrooms next to my mom, I said that he reacted with a heart-eyes emoji to almost all the food I posted on my Instagram story, even before I knew what I was doing in the kitchen. We cried again. His absence from my inbox is something I will always miss, even when my inbox is full. I’ll never get to cook for him.
It’s remarkable how much the food associated with a person means to you when they’re gone. Chicken corn soup was once just chicken corn soup.
My mother has always been a stay-at-home mom, which comes with stereotypes. Or at least I think it does. Personally, I think of the stay-at-home girlfriend trend on TikTok and Amy Poehler’s character in Mean Girls. (“I’m not like a regular mom. I’m a cool mom!”) My mom does pick out clothes that I actually like, so I guess that’s pretty cool. But what’s even cooler than her taste in going out dresses is the way she effortlessly confronts heavy topics. Well, not effortlessly, as the effort and care she puts into untangling emotions shouldn’t be dismissed. As I got older, I began to respect her talents more and more in general, but especially as we grieved – at the same time, but in very different ways.
While I had a tendency to distract myself from my grief, my mother seemed to give her emotions the attention they deserved. Even when she was deep in sorrow, she supported others through her words. I listened to her talk to her large family on the phone, an ocean away from them, yet her voice radiated empathy as if she was next to them. Unfortunately, it’s not an inheritable quality, but I hope that one day I’m able to handle heavy situations with as much grace and heart.
I resonated with these words by
on this week:“It’s not normal, or ironic, or even slightly funny that we’re this bad at making space to process loss and suffering. It’s fucked up, and I’m increasingly convinced it’s at the heart of our national regression. Around Covid, of course, but also around mass gun violence, and addiction, and eldercare. We have so little language to describe the onset of grief in our lives, and so little expectation of accommodation for it. We don’t know how to breathe, how to be still in our sadness. And if you won’t allow yourself that grace, it’s so difficult to authentically extend it to others.”
I’m realizing how bothered I feel by offhanded comments about the pandemic, as if it were a time to fast forward beyond rather than thoroughly acknowledge.
I remember all the details about the day Chunnu mamu passed: I went on a hike, I ate cereal after dinner, I had a genetics class on Zoom the next morning. I recall so much about my individual experience of losing him, but I’m still uncovering repressed memories of him – memories that are likely buried alongside other special moments that I will eventually remember.
I wish I was emotionally capable of talking about Chunnu mamu more, but selfishly enough, writing this feels like an appropriate start. I even smiled a few times! I want to be able to look at old photos of our biennial trips to India, unafraid of coming across a picture of him. Not just unafraid, but grateful. Funnily enough, he’s rarely in the photos because he designated himself the family photographer. I don’t want to forget the moments we shared together, me on the back of his motorcycle, with chicken corn soup in my hands. The two of us, late to lunch, because we were wandering the aisles of the bookstore. He taught me to go above and beyond for the ones you love.
His Netflix profile persists on our home page and will remain there for as long as we have a Netflix account, a constant reminder to celebrate the life he lived. Words are just words, but I hope they honor the impact he had on other people. I know if Chunnu mamu was here, he’d read every word I wrote, the same way my mother does.
mini spice rack
cooking
Oyster mushroom hot wings with herby vegan aioli for a potluck. I saved two wings to make a crispy mushroom sandwich the next day. Also chole, baingan bharta, and my first time trying tteokbokki!
dining
As the time I have left in LA dwindles, so does my money. I had mushroom ceviche, vegan paella, and my first martini ever at Rosaliné. A stuffed sambusak at Bibi’s Cafe. Sesame leaf kimbap at The Kimbap.
drinking
I think LA is really good at fun lattes compared to other places, so I’m trying to take advantage. No lattes with oat milk for me! I had a rose latte, cereal milk matcha, a layered orange-flavored latte, and a blue hibiscus latte. If it’s a sweet drink, I always ask if they can make it less sweet and that method has worked well for me to ensure that the sweetness doesn’t detract from the coffee!
reading
Ending this heavy post with the funniest thing I read. I don’t remember how I stumbled upon it, but please do yourself a favor and read As A Father Of Daughters, I Think We Should Treat All Women Like My Daughters.
This was a delightful, heartfelt tribute to someone who mattered in your life - thanks for sharing this beautiful moment...
thank you for sharing this. it matters.