Parathas in the Kitchen with a Magic Flavour

KG has contributed some serious stuff over the last few weeks, ranging from hardcore economy to international affairs, with a sprinkling of an article on artificial intelligence and religion. We were pleasantly surprised by his wide-ranging interests as we read this moving piece reminiscing about the 'Parathas' — the ultimate breakfast of North Indian kitchens — made by his mother. Please read the article to savour the taste of 'Parathas' through KG's untiring pen.

Parathas in the Kitchen with a Magic Flavour

Krishan Gopal Sharma

There are some mornings that live forever. Long after the walls have been repainted and the furniture replaced, their scent still lingers — of roasted flour, warm butter, and something more elusive: love. For me, that scent belongs to my mother’s kitchen, a place that taught me not only how to eat, but how to remember.

The house would still be wrapped in sleep when the kitchen came alive. A soft clink of steel bowls. The whisper of a match striking. Then the steady hum of a flame catching hold.

My mother was always awake before the world — wrapped in her faded cotton sari, sleeves rolled, hair tied back. She moved through the morning light with quiet certainty, her eyes calm, her mind already in rhythm with the day. The kitchen was her temple, and breakfast her prayer.

She never needed recipes. Her hands knew what to do, guided by instinct and memory. Chilli-stuffed parathas were her signature — fiery, bold, and unforgettable. She’d grind the chillies herself, mix them with spices that she never measured, and knead the dough until it felt like silk. When each paratha met the tawa, it would puff up with pride — golden, crisp, alive. A dollop of homemade white butter, soft and cloud-like, would melt on top. A bowl of thick, chilled curd stood nearby, waiting patiently.

I’d sit at the table, still half-asleep, watching her in awe. My lunchbox would be packed with care, wrapped in a clean cloth and tucked neatly into my bag. I thought it was just food — until I reached school.

There, before I even opened it, friends would gather around, noses twitching in anticipation.

“Your mom made the chilli ones today, didn’t she?” And I’d smile, opening the box like a magician revealing his best trick.

We’d eat together — laughing, trading bites, and wiping tears from the heat. They always said my mother’s parathas were better than anything in a restaurant. I believed them. Because it wasn’t just food. It was love, folded into dough and roasted into memory.

Years went by. School turned into college, college into work. Cities changed. Languages changed. But my mother’s kitchen didn’t. It remained an island of constancy, fragrant with tradition.

Even now, at ninety, she stands by the stove when the family gathers. Her hands tremble slightly, but her spirit remains steady. The parathas taste even better now — perhaps because they carry more years, more stories, more love.

I’ve learned to make them too. I’ve stood beside her, watched, measured, tried to mimic her touch. But something always eludes me. The flavour is close, but not quite. Maybe it’s the way she hums softly as she cooks. Maybe it’s how she folds the dough with a whisper of prayer. Maybe it’s just her.

My children live in another world — one of burgers, noodles, and pizzas. But when they visit, they ask for her food. “For Daadi’s parathas,” they say.

And she smiles, the same quiet smile she’s worn all her life — the one that hides both pride and patience. For them, she’s Daadi, but to me, she will always be the woman who turned an ordinary kitchen into a place of magic.

At my maternal uncle’s home, that same alchemy survives. The onion sabzi there — sharp, spicy, perfect with parathas — carries its own signature. These are dishes no restaurant could replicate, preserved in the memory of hands that have cooked for a lifetime. A world slowly fading, yet alive in the few kitchens where tradition still hums softly before dawn.

I’ve begun writing it all down — not just recipes, but stories. Of mornings that began with the hiss of the tawa and the scent of roasted flour. Of lunchboxes that carried not only food, but belonging. Of a mother — now a grandmother — whose cooking has become the thread that ties generations together.

Because some flavours refuse to fade.

They live on — in the laughter around the table, in the warmth of curd on a cold morning, in the quiet love of a woman who begins each day with a gift.

And when my children someday remember home, I hope it smells — just a little — like Daadi’s kitchen.

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Krishan Gopal Sharma; kgsharma1@gmail.com; Freelance journalist, retired from Indian Information Services. Former senior editor with DD News, AIR News, and PIB. Consultant with UNICEF Nigeria. Covered BRICS, ASEAN, Metropolis summits and contributed to national and international media.

(Views are personal)