When I think of my mother — and I hate to admit this, bear with me — I think of her in the kitchen. It’s through the dishes she makes that she expresses herself most clearly, and it is what she’s dedicated her life to doing. When she went to university and earned a postgraduate degree in dietary science, when she worked as a nutritionist, and when she subsequently quit her job upon her pregnancy to dedicate her life to raising me — and later my brother — it was through cooking that she crafted her legacy, every recipe a glimpse into who she was before I knew her.
And who she was, I’ve learnt, is an incredibly interesting person. From competing in state-level badminton, to performing in every school play, each meal she prepares is a reminder of that vivacious past. I wonder sometimes, when I see her working so effortlessly, kneading dough or spicing the food, whether it was so easy for her to resort to a life of domesticity upon her marriage, and if she struggled with getting accustomed to her duties despite always knowing they were inevitable due to her position as a woman. I don’t ask — the personal nature of the conversation is something that makes us both uncomfortable — though I can tell what the answer is through the way she so vehemently advocates, in front of my father and her more traditional relatives, my right to pursue whatever path I wish to, and the way in which she shows her encouragement and support towards my academic endeavours through packed lunches, hot breakfasts, and affirmations over home cooked dinners.
When I think of my mother — more specifically of the entrapment I’m almost certain she experiences in the domestic nature of her life — I think of her in the kitchen, and the room, with all of its cabinets and cutlery comes to represent her oppression, and the limitations faced by the women in the generations before me. It is why, I think, I so vehemently shunned the idea of sharing my mother’s interests in the past — sewing, knitting, dancing. I suppose it was an attempt at running away from the oppression I deemed so intrinsic to being a woman like I knew she was; I suppose I thought that in my rejection of these activities I was able to become less a victim, more the person I wanted to be. Independent, powerful, happy.
Despite my best attempts, I was reminded on numerous occasions just how much I was like her, just how much it was inevitable. The way we smile with our teeth bared, the pattern of our curls, the manner with which the lines on our palms twist and contort — I found after a while that I could try my very hardest to be less like her, to be less like who I inherently am down to my very bones, but that no such course of action would be successful. I recall having regarded this with cynicism in the past; what was the point of my education and attempts at academic and professional success when, just like my mother and the women before her, it would serve only — if at all — to confine me to a bigger house, to a wealthier man, to a more fiscally sound, and equally restrictive marriage? And I would watch my mother work when I came home from school. And in spite of all my affection and respect for her I would pray and wish for something different.
I would notice, though, in quieter moments, how straight she stood over the countertop, the poise with which she worked, the hint of a smile on her face when the dishes she made gained praise. How she flourished in spite of her circumstances. It is in these moments of realisation I feel most like her, and she seems most like the woman I want to be; optimistic, compassionate, ridiculously talented.
I’ve been trying my hand at it lately, cooking. I’m no good, I’ll admit — I burn my eggs, undercook my potatoes. My mother teaches me with a patience I know she’s gained from the submission ingrained in her. When I think of her I think of the skill and grace with which she works in the kitchen, I think of the passion with which she fights for my freedom to go beyond the boundaries of that room. She, and the women before her, have given so much up in an attempt for equality, have only dreamt of it, quietly, boldly, like a wondrous hypothetical, in the middle of the night. Despite their domestic confinement they carved out spaces for themselves in a world that left them little room to grow, and in doing so, they paved the way for me to live the life they only dared to imagine.
My mother’s hands move with a grace that seems effortless, and for a moment, I imagine mine will too. Show me again, I ask her, how you crush the cardamom husk. How your fingers dance around the seed with nimble familiarity. When I think of her I think of my shame. My stupidity. In the things she makes, and the dishes I attempt, I see the sliver of hope she kept safe from her own life to impart onto me, the blades that lie sharp, hidden, within the crevices of her cutlery. The weight of her legacy no longer feels like something I need to run from. I can see now that taking parts of her life into my own isn’t a sign of defeat. It’s a choice. To carry what strengthens me, to leave behind what doesn’t. I used to think freedom meant breaking away entirely, but now I know—it’s in what we choose to keep, in the stories we shape for ourselves. And in that, I find my peace.
Kinjal Johri lives in Singapore, and spends her days crunched over her laptop, trying to churn out words.