Food has an uncanny way of weaving itself into the fabric of our memories, often serving as an unspoken bond between loved ones. When a cherished person departs, the foods once shared with them transform, carrying echoes of past conversations, laughter, and tender care. In this piece of writing, Disha reflects on her first return to her hometown after the passing of her beloved father—a father whose love showed up in seasonal foods and treats from the bustling markets of Lucknow. Now, each delicacy once brought by him—bun makkhan from Sharmaji (bun butter), pani bataashe from Sadar, shareefa (custard apple), goodi (boiled water chestnuts) —carries a bittersweet reminder of his absence. How does one navigate a world where familiar flavors evoke not only taste but also grief? Through the lens of personal loss, this piece explores the unique bond between food and memory, offering a tender reflection on how, in our loved ones’ absence, food becomes a bittersweet keeper of memories.
1.
Stepping back into one’s hometown can be a rich, nostalgic experience, laden with scents, tastes, and memories woven into the fabric of familiar streets and familiar faces. Yet, this time, it feels different. It’s my first visit back since my father’s passing, and in his absence, I find that certain beloved foods now evoke something new—a unique blend of remembrance and sorrow that I wasn’t prepared for.
Food has always been a bridge to memory, transcending its basic function to become a carrier of emotional weight. In many ways, it is almost a language unto itself, offering familiarity, comfort, and closeness. With every season, there were foods my father would bring, each one becoming a token of his care. These weren’t just food but gestures of love that my father expressed without ever saying a word.
Today, though, the absence of those gestures feels like an unexpected barrier to enjoying these foods. Without him, I find myself unable to touch them, unable to welcome the taste that was once so cherished. The foods that once evoked warmth now bring an odd kind of ache, and I begin to wonder about the strange relationship between food and memory—how taste and smell connect us so vividly to people we’ve lost.
2. Food as Memory: A Shared Philosophy
There is a philosophy that food is one of our deepest sensory links to memory, a phenomenon known as gustatory nostalgia. Psychologists have long held that the sense of taste is perhaps our most evocative sense. Memories associated with food go beyond just taste—they involve sight, smell, touch, and often sound, too. It’s no surprise, then, that food becomes a potent trigger, taking us back to moments of joy or sadness, to warm embraces and quiet gestures of affection. This concept, perhaps, underpins why a simple cup of tea or an old family recipe can transport us back in time, reviving faces, voices, and emotions from long ago.
In his presence, these foods had a magic that transcended flavour. They spoke of early winter evenings when my father would return home with his hands full of seasonal treats. Each was a simple but irreplaceable token that he knew I would enjoy, things he would buy just because he knew I liked them. How remarkable it is that food, with its humble roots, can silently carry the weight of someone's love. Yet now, in his absence, these treats have taken on a different role: they are relics of a time shared, yet that time now feels out of reach.
3. The Shifting Meaning of Familiar Foods
Once, food was a celebration of presence—a way to connect over something shared, over a love of taste and laughter. But the same foods can become a bittersweet reminder when the person who brought them into your life is no longer there. These days, walking through the busy market in my hometown and seeing my favourite food items brings a mixture of nostalgia and hesitation. It’s as though the familiar food stands are waiting for me, yet I find myself unable to approach them, unable to accept what they offer.
This phenomenon—where absence alters the meaning of familiar foods—is both universal and deeply personal. Around the world, countless people share stories of a particular dish that reminds them of a loved one now gone. For some, it’s a holiday recipe or a specific brand of tea. For others, like me, it’s Sharmaji ka bun makkhan. The foods that brought warmth and familiarity now hold a layer of melancholy, a quiet reminder of a presence that once was. It’s as though each dish has retained an echo of my father, a fragment of his spirit that lingers even in his absence.
4. Reflections on Grief and the Passage of Time
Reflecting on the shifting significance of food in the context of loss, I am reminded of the ancient philosopher Epicurus, who spoke about the role of memory in understanding grief. He believed that grief could transform into a type of gratitude over time, allowing us to cherish what once was rather than mourn its absence. Perhaps, in time, I might be able to eat these foods again with fondness rather than hesitation, but for now, they are like sacred keepsakes, untouched, preserved in their memory-bound state.
The passage of time, they say, is a healer, but it seems that food binds us in a unique way to specific moments and specific people. It asks us to remember, to confront our memories. While grief does soften, it seems that some foods retain their poignant quality, asking us to sit with our feelings of longing for just a moment longer. A taste, a texture, a smell—they are like portals to a world where everything was as it used to be, only for them to vanish with the last bite. I wonder: will I ever eat these foods again without feeling that ache?
5. An Open-Ended Question
In this quiet moment, I am left with a question that seems both inevitable and unanswerable: How long will I have to wait before I can enjoy these foods again? I suppose there are others who share the same sentiment. People for whom certain foods have become inextricably linked to a loved one which is of priceless value and an irreplaceable weight. When, if ever, does a familiar food return to being just food? Or do these things become an eternal part of memory—a lingering reminder of love that endures beyond time and place?
About the writer:
Disha is a Ph.D. Scholar & Senior Research Fellow at Dr. K. R. Narayanan Centre for Dalit and Minorities Studies, Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi, India