It’s the Small Things | Two Pieces of Halwa
I’m hardly a cook – certainly nothing like my mom. Growing up, I would watch her effortlessly cook wonders, always radiating happiness – much like the joy I feel when filling my online shopping cart today. The perfection, focus, and delight she brought to preparing dal, timing nihari mutton to tender perfection, or whipping up traditional sweets was nothing short of magical.
Even in simpler acts, such as shaping a shaami kebab, she displayed a remarkable skill: what she would call saleeqa, or finesse. I was often teased about it and I doubted whether I’d ever inherit from her. Having people over for dinner was her second nature.
Me? While I love to host, planning a dinner becomes a five-year plan, with phases, delays and contingency plans. My very first thought usually is: what can I order in and what might I actually not ruin if I cook it myself? Sprinkle in a generous serving of stress, and you’ve got my recipe for hospitality. So, all in all, I did not inherit the fondness nor the skill for cooking from her. Sure, I picked up some of her recipes, and sometimes I try my hand at them. But truth be told, I never did master the art of the best of her dishes.
There are days when I miss them so much. One such dish is chane ka halwa (roughly translating as chickpea pudding), which is especially close to my heart. It was my mother’s masterpiece. The golden-brown colour, what we will call the perfectly bhuna (roasted) halwa, with its heady scent of ghee and nuts swirling through the house, and its melt-in-your-mouth flavour, is a memory that returns with a vengeance every year. My cousins could also never get enough of it and would make a point to ask her to make it for them, pack up boxes and take it abroad. It was no easy feat, roasting the chana dal for hours to give it that perfect bhuna texture. I still plan to make it someday, but the slow torture of endless stirring keeps ruining my plans.
Illustration: Pariplab Chakraborty
This year on Eid Milad un Nabi, Prophet Muhammad’s birthday, a family friend sent me a photo of his table with the traditional halwa laid out. I had just finished a long day at work, and I wasn’t too cheerful. I found myself battling a wave of nostalgia and a tinge of envy. I made it a point to tell him this, and we exchanged our usual light-hearted banter, with a hint of teasing honesty, about me being parentless and missing out on all such things. As much as I had planned (mind you, just planned in my head) that I would make the halwa this year, with my help at home, the halwa became a dream of mine in the usual whirlwind of a weekday at work.
By the time I was ready to wind down, it was well past 10 PM, and the doorbell rang. We don’t expect visitors at that hour on a weekday, so I was a bit curious. On the other side was an Uber delivery guy with a small parcel, which he mentioned was sent by my friend. I accepted it, confused.
Wrapped in a humble aluminium foil were two golden pieces of chaney ka halwa. The rich colour and the intoxicating aroma – I realised I hadn’t seen or smelled anything like that in years. A single bite transported me back to the days of pure joy and comfort. I devoured a piece before my family even had the chance to come and ask who was at the door. I didn’t have any intention of sharing it.
I called my friend and thanked him for his thoughtfulness. He sounded a little apologetic on the phone, saying he felt bad for sending me only two pieces. Honestly, though, I was so pleased I couldn’t have cared about the quantity. I was also aware that the halwa is usually made in small quantities as a sweet token to mark a celebration. I cherished this unexpected warm gesture and the realisation that my friend truly understood what it meant to me.
No amount of online food deliveries could ever bring the same joy or warmth that those two pieces of halwa did. Sometimes, just a small thing is all it takes to make a big difference. For me, it was a thoughtful friend, and a sweet taste of home, exactly when I needed it most to make everything feel right again.
Beena Rehman is a digital content developer based in Delhi.
We’ve grown up hearing that “it’s the small things” that matter. That’s true, of course, but it’s also not – there are Big Things that we know matter, and that we shouldn’t take our eyes, minds or hearts off of. As journalists, we spend most of our time looking at those Big Things, trying to understand them, break them down, and bring them to you.
And now we’re looking to you to also think about the small things – the joy that comes from a strangers’ kindness, incidents that leave you feeling warm, an unexpected conversation that made you happy, finding spaces of solidarity. Write to us about your small things at thewiresmallthings@gmail.com in 800 words or less, and we will publish selected submissions. We look forward to reading about your experiences, because even small things can bring big joys.
Read the series here.
This article went live on January thirty-first, two thousand twenty six, at forty-five minutes past nine in the morning.The Wire is now on WhatsApp. Follow our channel for sharp analysis and opinions on the latest developments.
