Landing in Jodhpur always had a sweet start, quite literally. Every time I arrived, I was greeted not just by the familiar, warm faces of home but also by the tantalizing scent of rabdi ghewar waiting for me in the car. This wasn’t just any treat; it was a ritual, a symbol of homecoming steeped in sweetness, with the creamy layers of rabdi and the crisp, syrupy ghewar melding into a perfect welcome.
My mom, always eager to see me, would ensure the ghewar was there, ready as soon as I settled into the car at the airport. It was her way of saying, “Welcome home!” It didn’t matter how long I’d been away; that first bite of ghewar, rich and satisfying, made me feel like I’d never left. It’s one of those cherished traditions that seemed so small at the time but now looms large in my memory, especially since I can no longer share those moments with my dad.
Since his passing, I have a bittersweet tang. The city feels the same, the roads home familiar, yet the absence of my dad leaves a void no amount of sweetness can fill. The ghewar still awaits me; my mother still greets me with that loving insistence to eat as I get into the car. But the ritual feels different now. Each bite is a reminder of who’s not there to share it with me.
The joy of returning home is now tinged with sadness, and the flavors of the ghewar are mingled with nostalgia and loss. Remembering how we used to enjoy it together, how my dad’s eyes would light up with joy with each bite, brings both comfort and a sharp pang of missing him. It’s strange how the memory of such simple joys can become so poignant, how the absence of one person can transform the flavor of tradition.
Now, I struggle to remember all those moments without a sense of loss overshadowing them. It’s like trying to grasp a fading scent, knowing you can never fully capture it again. But I’m learning to cherish these memories, to hold on to the sweetness despite the pain, to continue the traditions in honor of my dad. Maybe, with time, the ritual of the ghewar will become less about the absence and more a celebration of all the beautiful moments we shared.
Until then, I let the sweetness linger on my tongue a little longer, savoring the connection to the past, to my father, and to the city that always welcomes me home, no matter what.
When my dad passed away, more changed than just losing him. Among these changes, one of the most poignant for me has been my relationship with sweets, particularly Indian sweets or “mithai,” which we both loved. My dad had a sweet tooth, and some of my fondest memories with him involve enjoying these treats together during festivals, celebrations, or just on ordinary days. Now, these sweets, once a symbol of joy and shared moments, have become something I can’t seem to stomach anymore.
For as long as I can remember, sweets were our thing. My dad would come home with a box of mithai from our favorite local shop, and his eyes would light up as he shared them. It was more than just the taste—it was a gesture of love, a small celebration of life’s little moments. We didn’t need a special occasion; sometimes, making it through a week was reason enough to indulge.
After he passed away, the thought of sweets began to bring a bitter taste to my mouth. The first time I tried to eat mithai after his death, it felt like I was trying to swallow stones. My throat just closed up. It wasn’t just the sweetness that had vanished; it was the essence of those moments we shared. The joy that used to come with those treats seemed to have left with him.
Since then, every festival, every birthday, and every family gathering has felt less colorful and less sweet without his presence. The boxes of sweets are still there, a staple in celebrations, but I find myself politely declining every time they’re passed around. People often look surprised, knowing how much I used to love them. I usually shrug and say I’m not in the mood, but the truth is, eating them without him feels like a betrayal of our memories.
I’ve come to realize that my avoidance of sweets is part of my grieving process. It’s as if avoiding them helps me avoid confronting the full weight of his absence. It’s strange how grief manifests, how it ties emotions to the most unexpected things, turning something as delightful as sweets into a trigger for sadness.
This avoidance has become a silent acknowledgment of the change in my life, a life that now must go on without one of its sweetest ingredients. It’s not that I believe I’ll never enjoy mithai again, but for now, they’re a chapter of my life that feels too painful to revisit