Sexy Love by T-ara is blaring from the tiny Bluetooth speaker behind me as I add a dollop of ghee into the merrily bubbling sambar. The smells feel home-y in a way it hasn’t in a long time. There are bowls of cooked green beans on the side. One with coconut as a garnish and another without. The instant pot is still on and I look at the kitchen one last time before I take a break before setting the table for lunch.
The sun is out. The music is on. Sunday mornings like today was the norm for the first decade of my married life. Somewhere in the last few years, everything started feeling bothersome. The effort did not feel like it was worth it to me anymore.
“Amma. save some of the beans with the coconut for meee.” Laddu’s voice breaks through the bubble I am in.
A few weeks ago, I was on the train to NYC. I put away my phone and read a book on the way in and out of the city, about five hours in total.
Crying in H Mart is a memoir I picked based on conversations with fellow memoir writers. Set in Philadelphia, Eugene and Seoul, the memoir traverses the author’s life dealing with the grief of her mother’s cancer diagnosis and eventually her passing. The writing is immediate, personal and conversational. I was more than halfway through the book when I paused to figure out why this book came acclaimed. I could not put my finger on it. There was nothing spectacular about it. It was humdrum, kind of like how I write. Microscopic details woven in with reflection.
On the ride home as I finished the last chapter, it hit me. It came recommended because of how average it was. It was every woman’s story. To be specific, every immigrant mid life woman’s story. It was my story. No, my mom is alive and well. But, I could see myself in her words. I could see myself standing in the middle of a Rathna Stores in T. Nagar and breaking down because of how one karandi, one yennai pathram looked exactly like the one I grew up with. I could imagine myself in Naidu Hall, browsing through ready made blouses and feeling deja vu.
I could totally relate to stumbling upon that one container in my pantry containing sittarathai or arisi thippili and being transported to the Deepavalis of my childhood. The power of the book is in the hyper specific details about her Korean upbringing that makes it universal. It is when she talks about food in that specific way that middle aged women who grew up with their (s)mothers talking as they cooked, ladling out recipes in oddly specific terms that are not any measures you will find anywhere in the world that makes it your story. When Michelle talks about her childhood and her story, she is talking about scores of us who grew up with love that did not fit neatly labeled boxes. She captures the essence of Asian mom love in a way that I can only hope to capture in my words some day for my children.
So, as I wiggled my booty to Sexy Love this morning as I added coriander to the sambar, I hoped that some day the strains of this specific song will bring back this specific moment in my child’s head. A moment when her mom was her free-est self, despite whatever flawed childhood she may have had.
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