A letter I wrote for my mother’s 70th birthday on March 1, 2026.
The other day I was eating pulao.
And I bit into a whole black peppercorn.
Stop.
In one second I was ten years old again.
I used to hate those things.
Black.
Hard.
Uninvited.
Amma would make the world’s best khichdi and pulao.
That was never the issue.
But those peppercorns…
They always got in the way of my eating.
I would remove them.
Line them up on the side of my plate.
As if I was doing some quality control on your cooking.
I thought I was being smart.
But I have come to realise…
I was removing the very thing that was deepening the dish.
You never crushed the peppercorn.
You never powdered it.
You let it sit whole in the cooker.
Silent.
Doing its work.
You don’t always taste a peppercorn directly.
But if it is missing, something feels incomplete.
That is you Amma.
Not loud.
Not announcing.
Not asking for applause.
But changing the flavour of everything.
Today you turn 70.
If I removed even 70 peppercorns every year…
that means thousands of reminders across a lifetime.
I did not know it then.
But every peppercorn I pushed aside
was quietly teaching me and reminding me something about you.
Presence.
Strength.
Space.
The kind of love that does not perform.
It just stays.
In every small gift.
In every word.
In every thought you send my way.
Your essence has always been there.
And it is there even now.
That pulao Ashwini served the other day…
with that one stubborn peppercorn…
was a small awakening for me.
Funny how life works.
You ignore something for years.
And then one day it becomes the lesson.
So today these 70 peppercorns are not the ones I remove.
They are the ones I honour.
Thank you, Amma,
for being the peppercorn of our lives.
Powerful.
Essential.
Quietly transformative.
On your 70th birthday, I don’t wish you noise or celebration.
I wish you warmth in your body.
Calm in your mind.
Lightness in your heart.
And just enough spice
to be do and have - all that you need.
Please keep serving khichdi.
With peppercorns.
Because without them…
without you…
I honestly don’t know who I would have become.
Happy Birthday, Amma.