Someone very dear to me passed away in March leaving behind an emptiness I'm still struggling to come to terms with. She was 84 and a part of me tries to use that as a modicum of comfort. Another reminds me of the many tragedies, trials and tribulations she experienced, suggesting I be inspired by her courage and strength of mind. While yet another reminds me that I will never again taste the dishes that formed the bedrock of my childhood and epitomise comfort food. The arc of my life and memories are dotted and sometimes defined by her. A 1-RK house with speckled tiles, me lying in a lap that is covered by a cotton sari softened by repeated washes, the fragrance of 501 soap permanently embroidered into the fabric. A hand roughened by work, caressing my forehead and teasing my hair into different patterns. The same hand patiently pouring a karandi of vettal koyambu into the center of a pat of cold curd rice in my palm. The feet I would be asked to massage the weariness and pai...