Some afternoons never really leave us.

They simply wait quietly in a corner of our memory until a familiar smell

brings them home again.

For me, that smell is fresh aval rolled with coconut and jaggery.

Every school day, my Dodda would be waiting for us.

By the time we came running through the long passage that led to the kitchen,

she was already standing there,

her saree neatly wrapped around her shoulder,

a brass plate resting gently in her hands.

She never called out loudly.

She didn't have to.

We knew exactly where to find her.

School bags were dropped wherever they landed.

Shoes forgotten.

The only destination that mattered was the kitchen.

There, waiting with the gentlest smile, was Dodda.

One by one, she would place warm aval urundais into our eager little hands

before we had even thought to ask.

No grand speeches.

No special occasion.

Just quiet love, rolled into small coconut ladoos.

Looking back now, I don't think she was simply feeding hungry children.

She was teaching us what home tasted like.

Today, whenever I prepare Aval Urundai as naivedhyam for Krishna,

those afternoons return.

The aroma of coconut.

The softness of jaggery.

The warmth of hands that gave before they were ever asked.

Perhaps that is why these simple offerings still feel sacred to me.

Some recipes nourish the body.

Others carry the memory of the people who first placed love into our hands.

And for me, that will always be Dodda.

❤️

“Some recipes nourish the body. Others carry the memory of the people who first placed love into our hands..”