| Bachu Hiranmayee | January 2026 | Flash Fiction |
It was her first time putting tomatoes in the posto, and the paste fried and bubbled, smelling divine. Listening to that cookery lady had as if given her-the stickler for amma’s recipe rules permission to throw caution to the wind, and turn on the exhaust fan.
On spotting the desi tomatoes and pointy gourds in the Sunday bazaar, amma’s voice came, telling her to always pick firm red desi tomatoes for the best tang. And that cookery lady’s “there’s no perfect hot kitchen recipe” had become a bit of a mantra for her since hearing it for the first time. All those YouTubers she had frowned at, maybe she could try? Things could change after all. She was now old and wise enough to know that.
Amma only had one rule-in essence-that the sole purpose of cooking was to make ‘bellies full and mouths happy.’ She was a kitchen-experimenter, and encouraged Paddu to do the same once Paddu started cooking. Amma’s experiments had reached perfection. And one does not mess with that. So Paddu wouldn’t, and honestly, couldn’t. Especially, because she was eager to please those who were not easy to please.
When Paddu had started cooking, her own talent for it surprised her, but not amma. “You’re a late bloomer, kanna, but you always bloom. Never forget that.” “Not blooming amma, it was like a volcano,” she recalled how it had started, the violence of chopping and frying, oil and water attacking each other, explosions of chilli seeds and the sizzle of deflating peas. She thought it a perfect mirror for her marriage-violence culminating in a coming together, over and over. Amma, in her wisdom, had predicted they would fight some in the formative years of marriage. But when Paddu was spending her third anniversary with her instead of him, crying while making and eating the halwa she didn’t even like, Amma had gently suggested a divorce. “Don’t worry, amma, he doesn’t hit me or anything… It’s just a bit complicated. We’ll be fine…” “There are more ways to break a person, kanna… Salty air is corrosive even to stones, and you come back smaller each time…”
Corrosive – Paddu had let the thought wander. A week away from him, and she was already sleeping better. Not waiting for a taunt lurking around the corner sure felt nicer. This time, when he threatened to leave, Paddu permitted herself to feel relief. But his threats were as empty as his promises. Knowing she couldn’t count on it, she’d gone on to start the divorce process herself.
Cooking had started healing her then, her anger and grief. It stayed with her, it became meditative, and then love. Now, it allowed her a boldness of abandoning the tried and tested, as much in life as in the kitchen.
But amma’s wisdom had fallen short when Paddu brought Meena home. Her ways of love exceeded the reach of amma’s syllabus. They were both doing things they had never done. Paddu was walking ahead of amma for the first time, and for the first time, amma was rewarding her with radio silence. Requests for recipes and pictures of meals had been their love language since Paddu had left home after college, over a decade ago. Now the messages were gathering blue ticks, languishing for amma to care just enough to spare at least an emoji.
No matter, she’ll Swiggy genie a box of this Parval-posto anyway. Amma didn’t throw them away, that much Munni didi had confirmed when she came to return the boxes one time. They both ate her new wave of experiments. Didi said amma even cried sometimes.
Paddu checked the Swiggy guy in through MyGate, the box packed and ready to go. She will come around about Meena too. Maybe amma was also a late bloomer, but she will bloom.
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Bachu Hiranmayee calls herself a creature of stories. Her favourite writers include – Margaret Atwood, Arundhati Roy, Kazuo Ishiguro and Ted Chiang. Her writing often reflects real world themes, woven into narratives unfolding in speculative worlds or scenarios. She’s a vocal advocate for social justice issues, and considers herself a better essayist than an orator. And she likes to think there are few things a cup of black coffee and a feminist book can’t fix. She lives in Hyderabad with her friends and cats.
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