When a friend loses a loved one in death, I often find solace in the words “He never left us. He will not return to his original position. “However, if someone said this to me, I don’t know how I received it. He did not know the woman with whom I was staying. I have not seen him defeated, yet I knew he would give. She has never seen me struggle with the devastating problem of loneliness, nor did she know of my frustration. Does he think that I am too remote or inaccessible to him? Does he think I don’t love him anymore and left him to die alone?
I was from Dadu taste tester. Small pieces of chicken, lamb, goat, or fish, dipped in a small metal bowl with a little broth and a sweet spoon, reach my feet as I read or draw or write in several books that I have filled in. ‘a sack of cloth. No one else was responsible for the project. Dadu watched, glancing, as I tasted what he was making. Every bad day I regret that I have never had anything but easy compliments to give, because what was in the dish was always amazing. That’s great! ”I cry, turning the plate and spoon back. She smiles, shakes her head, and heads back to the kitchen. I wish I could take a break to consider the amount of salt, acidity, the amount of spices, the amount of onion and garlic and ginger. But I have not become the person I am here to be. The small iron bowl was just a picture of the big plate I was eating after, a temporary happy exchange starting to chat in the many conversations we have about spices and stews and wheat as I grow older.
Perhaps the most memorable part of my life was the reality. At the end of each week, Dadu would put me down with a exercise book. With great care, I also mentioned every letter, large and small, pencil and pen, over and over again. As I respond to his cooking, Dadu was always pleased with my efforts. When I expressed frustration with my small g and capital N’s problem, he patiently showed me how to improve both. He told me in Bengali almost every few stories of O. Henry, having read and loved them as a child.
Telemachus, Friend he was very dear, and whenever he told me the story, perhaps the way he slept with me at night, I reminded him in a dream that in Greek mythology, Telemachus was the son of Ulysses and Penelope; he left home to find his father, but realized that Ulysses had come home before. Dadu appreciated my memory and continued with the story. I was in college before realizing how difficult it was for Dadu to translate into Bengali the stories of one of America’s best-known writers, who, like me, lived in New York City and Texas, before my grandfather knew before I would have lived in both places. While living in Manhattan in Irving Place – where O. Henry himself lived, worked, and drank for years – I bought a drink at Pete’s Tavern and cried with joy, thinking of the day I would tell Dadu about my one-time trip.
In all the years I have been away from him, I have not seen all the ways I can be like him. According to my grandfather’s instructions, I first wrote a pencil, a longhand, and then rewrote it (“good copy,” in his own words) in a spring pen. He praised the spring recordings – meaningless – acknowledging that they were a remnant of a time when people had to rely on and take care of their weapons, instead of taking them lightly. I see my writing as an artist, as Dadu did, and send letters and letters to friends across the country. If I watch any kind of TV, everyone around me should be quiet so that I can listen and learn. The very nature of the food helps me to feel closer to the people, so that they can come together to eat with me at the meal I have prepared. Dadu taught me how to cook for others it might look good but what the eater gave you was so much bigger than any meal you could prepare. You have given them several dishes of good food, but they have given you their time, energy, love, patience, relaxation, comments, gratitude. You could see their happiness. There is a greater gift.
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