The Scent of Her Pilaf
Ayan was chasing her grandchildren inside of her 3 room flat. This flat hosted many runs in 50+ years. They were giggling hard as they ran away from the grandma. She put her hands on her chest to catch some breath. Her body was reminding her about the years that are gone. She found herself sitting in the sofa and watching little demons run their hearts out. She knew how to make them pause for some period. All it took was a pencil.
Little Muhammad and Maryam stopped running and sat by their grandma to watch her use that pencil. Pencil would create magic. Papers would smoothly transition into wild forests with colorful animals and little kids. They looked and tried to catch all the hints of their grandmas handcraft. They loved seeing her concentration. The muscle memory in her old hands was remarkable.
Ayan was so obsessed about the drawing that she forgot about her pilaf. It was steaming high in the kitchen already. Everybody in Ayan’s neighborhood loved her pilaf. It would become an instant topic of discussion in many households. There was something in the scent that came from her kitchen. This scent was inevitable and impossible to forget. Pilaf was her manifesto. It was her way of surviving, meditating and painting at the same time.
She was a painter. She used to be. Her parents were against it. They refused to let her study in the Academy of Arts. But she did. They refused to meet the person who she chose to be her life partner. But she chose him. They refused to let her comeback to the village in her difficult times. Therefore, she did not. Life in the city with 3 children was unbearable burden. This city was ruthless to women with dreams. No woman had a chance to follow her ambitions. She had to leave her toy factory designer job for her kids. This was the most motherly thing to do. The kind of thing that mothers would regret later on in life. This parental marathon became her life mission. 3 kids grew into 3 boys. And then these boys became men. When boys become men they tend to leave their moms for other women. She watched how it all happened.
Her biggest son was famous but this did not help with his unprecedented level of jerkiness. He would not call or see her. The other boys would come because they needed money all the time. She would delay or postpone their trouble time by handing out her retirement money. It became a loop. They did not even need to say anything. She would understand it from their face expressions. Mothers are advanced radars. They catch emotions and spot feelings easily. Plus, she was very good in penciling and translating the face expressions. She did this for years. She was the best in her painting class. A promising candidate for the big art gallery exhibition. It did not happen. She was not given a choice. She was sent to kitchen by her husband. She did not have a say. It became her only art studio. She cooked for her husband, her mother and father in laws. She cooked for big groups of relatives. She cooked her life to the oblivion. Now she was cooking for her grand kids who loved her meals. But they loved her caricatures more.
Pilaf was ready. It was beautifully placed onto plates. Plates were standing next to pencil drawings. Some of the rice dropped onto the forest that she drew. She watched how her dumplings were eating and coloring her drawings. Room was filled with the scent of magnificent pilaf. This pilaf was made by an artist. This was scent of Renaissance era, you could feel the breeze of Tahiti that captivated Gauguin, you could see colors that Van Gogh used to play with. You could see it all in her eyes. Her eyes teared a bit. Grand kids were unaware of this moment until the girl noticed. She climbed into her lap and put her little fingers onto her grandmas cheeks.
She kissed her little Maryam. And soon the room got crowded with others who came to eat. Her food was the only reason that brought the entire family together. Plates were served. Faces shined. Spoons were readied. Art gallery exhibition with only one item was having blast.
Nothing was left on the table. Just the nods and strange sounds that people make when they get to experience something divine.
She was singing as she washed the dishes at night.
The fridge had pinned drawings all over it. She noticed how mature are the latest cars of Muhammad and how elegant are the doll costumes that Maryam draws. She loved their progress. May be they would continue her aspirations. May be not. She stood in front of the fridge with a fulfilled smile. The kind of smile that happens to decorate our faces once in a year or once in a life time.
