With a dash of Mindfulness

I often remember something my Environmental Science teacher once said in class: “One day, everyone will make peace within themselves. There will be a standstill around, and one will learn to breathe through anxiety in their own ways.”

At the time, it felt like a fancy line, a bit too poetic to be practical. But during COVID, when even the strongest countries with the best health systems stumbled, I finally understood it. The world, for once, had stopped. Everyone was locked in their own homes, everyone forced to wrestle with themselves. And in that silence, each of us was finding our own little way of breathing.

For me, that way was cooking.

Cooking, which I once dismissed as a chore, slowly became therapy. The act of slicing, stirring, frying—these ordinary movements—kept the panic of the news away. I started noticing small things: how jeera crackles in mustard oil, how the sharpness of a single green chilli can cut through the whole room, how a pinch of sugar softens the bitterness of everything. One of my first experiments was rui komola—rohu fried and then simmered in a light gravy touched with fresh orange juice. By the time it was served with hot rice, my mind felt calmer, steadier.

But more than just comfort, cooking became a connection. Being 1600 kilometres away from home, I missed “Ma er haath-er ranna” and also my "baba er hather ranna" so deeply that I started recreating it in my own kitchen. Some days it was chingri echor—green jackfruit cooked with prawns, spiced just right to taste like a Sunday meal back home. Some days kichuri, the monsoon classic, golden with moong dal and paired with fried begun or aloo bhaja. On slower afternoons, posto—poppy seed paste ground into a smooth paste with green chili, folded with aloo cubes until soft. Or its cousin, potol posto, the pointed gourd carrying the nutty comfort of posto inside it. 
Then came chingri bandhacopi—cabbage and prawns cooked together, the sweetness of the cabbage soaking up the rich flavours of the shrimp, stirred with ginger, cumin, and just enough garam masala to remind me of winter afternoons back home. Or phulkopi er dalna, cauliflower curry made with potatoes, peas, and a light tomato-onion base—always cooked in mustard oil, always balanced with a pinch of sugar that made the whole dish shine. Each recipe was a postcard from home, sent through memory and mustard oil.

And then there were the cravings that had less to do with nostalgia and more with sheer habit. An egg roll—the ultimate Calcutta street food—made in my own small kitchen. Paratha crisped on the tawa, egg spread across, a quick filling of onion, cucumber, green chilli, a dash of lime, and that smear of ketchup-mustard mix. One bite and I could almost hear the buzz of a roadside stall, the sizzle of hot oil, the voice of someone shouting, “Ekta double dim roll dao!”

Of course, nothing compares to my mother’s chicken curry—marinated with dahi and haldi, cooked slowly with onions, ginger, garlic, tomato, and those half-fried potato pieces that soak up the flavour. I can’t explain why, but making it—step by step, stirring until the oil separates, finishing with fresh coriander and lime—feels like reaching across the distance and touching her hand.

It isn’t just Ma, though. My ma'am's, whose rui komola recipe I borrowed, remains another anchor. Between these two women, I have been gifted not just recipes but ways of surviving—how to find joy in the middle of nothingness, how to make meaning in the ordinary. If I can inherit even half their strength, I’ll be grateful.

Work from home has blended into work for home. By evening, I am tired, yet my day doesn’t feel complete until I’ve stepped into the kitchen again. The cycle—Clean, Chop, Cook, Eat, Clean—doesn’t feel repetitive anymore. It feels meditative, almost like prayer.

Maybe this is what my teacher meant all along. Making peace is not about silence or escape—it is about finding therapy in everyday acts, about learning to breathe through the smell of mustard oil, the rhythm of a ladle stirring slowly, the steam of rice rising like incense.

And perhaps this is how we learn to live—even in a standstill, even in chaos. With food, with memory, with a pinch of salt and a little belief.

To have a look at my love for food https://www.instagram.com/debasrita.chakraborty/