Where Love Tastes Like Home

Photograph titled "Kid" by Anamitra Ray.

The evening air is quiet,
a silence that is warm, not empty.
I sit beside Papa,
the glow of the TV flickering across his face—
an old Bollywood movie, familiar, soft.
We do not talk much,
but we do not need to.
Some silences are not hollow;
they settle, like an old song—
comforting, known.

Papa is older now.
I see it in the silver strands threading his hair,
in the folded lines of his face,
in the slight slowness of his steps,
in the way his hands—
once so strong, so sure—
now tremble just a little when he holds a spoon.

But in the kitchen,
He is the same.

I hear the clinking of utensils,
the slow scrape of the ladle against the pan,
before he calls out—
his voice laced with anticipation.
"Come, food is ready!"
He always sounds excited,
whether it is something new,
or something made a hundred times before.

Sometimes, it is fried rice,
golden grains kissed by oil,
tossed with vegetables that glisten,
the scent of garlic rising with the steam—
warm, sharp, filling the air with hunger.

Other times, it is khichdi,
soft and slow-cooked,
yellow with turmeric,
whispering of comfort in every spoonful,
the kind of meal that holds you gently,
that feels like being wrapped in wool on a cold night.

And then, there is dal chawal,
simple, steady, familiar—
the way the dal thickens,
clinging to rice like an old embrace,
the aroma of ghee settling in the air,
the taste of home, of quiet days,
of never needing more than this.

Papa watches as I take a bite,
his eyes searching—
waiting for that first reaction.
I let the flavors settle on my tongue,
look up,
nod,
a thumbs up.
And then, his face—
it glows, as if lit from within.
That is all he needs.
That is all he has ever needed.

Sometimes, I cook for him too.
I serve him a plate,
waiting, just as he does.
He takes a bite,
pauses—
then, without words,
makes that small hand gesture,
the one that says, It’s good. I liked it.

People say food is the way to the heart.
Maybe it is.
Maybe it is in the warmth of a home-cooked meal,
in the way cinnamon lingers on the tongue,
in the sound of bubbling dal,
in the way spices cling to fingertips long after dinner is done.

Or maybe, it is in the quiet gestures—
in the way love is given,
without ever being spoken.

Maybe love is my father calling us to dinner,
waiting for our approval.
Maybe love is the way I cook for him,
hoping he tastes how much I care.

Maybe love has always tasted like home.