WHEN THE PULAO LOST ITS AROMA

As the rituals indicated, we prepared a sumptuous meal consisting of chicken and mutton, along with two desserts. There was laughter and loud burps. The food was well received. Atta, as my grandmother was known, would have been very pleased. She believed that a well fed family is a happy family. We felt her presence with us.
I could not help but notice that the mutton pulao which dad made had one ingredient missing. The meat was cooked well. It was from the famous Babumiah. The spices were just perfect and the flavor hit our senses. But, the aroma that used to waft whenever the dish was made, was simply not there.
Atta's classic dish was the pale-yellow pulao. It was reserved for her sons and grand kids. Even the neighbors used to salivate and show up on some pretext. Atta nonchalantly showed them the door. No matter how much the daughters-in-law tried, even adding the exact ingredients at the right time, the aroma could not be recreated. It was infused by Atta's own hand. All this was created using a small vessel. I always thought that it had no bottom. The pulao never ran out, no matter how many of us ate.
The raitha used to be her specialty too. Cold, with juicy cucumbers and fresh tomatoes. One could never have enough of Atta's pulao. The desert was mango, cut into equal shapes for everyone by Atta. She ensured only the best pieces were served. She never compromised on quality.
Dad used to narrate tales of Atta's ingenuity and grit. When the family fell into dire times, Atta used to light the stove using newspapers. The sons of Atta fought for meat and rice on weekends, and Atta obliged, even though it meant none was left for her. After Grand dad passed away, she was lonely. But her face lit up on family get-togethers'. She used to join us in our pranks and laugh's. Serving food was what she looked forward to. Even on these occasions she was the last to eat.
Grandmothers. Summer vacations are incomplete without them. Their goodies fill our stomach and touch our soul. You can never have enough of them. And you realise what you have lost, when God takes them away from you.
I...we, shall always remember you Atta. You have filled our memories with love and we cherish them. We keep you alive in our love for family and food.
As for the pulao, its not the same anymore. It has lost its magical touch. It has lost its aroma.