Wherever life may take you—whether to foreign lands or polished dining halls—nothing ever truly
matches the taste of food made by your mother’s hands.
Even now, years later, I can still feel the warmth of Amma’s palm pressing soft rice into little balls, tender
and simple. No rich masalas, no fancy tempering. Just plain rice with a whisper of tomato. And somehow,
it was the most delicious thing in the world.
I was just a little girl, cross-legged on the floor, watching her work with quiet care. That food didn’t just
fill my stomach—it filled my heart.
Those rice balls tasted of home, of comfort, of love that spoke without words. And in some tender corner
of memory, I still taste them.
With Love,
Greeshma.
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