What's in a plate?

Some of my favorite memories in life have involved a plate of food. The food itself surprisingly has not been the hero of those moments but what it signified.

Each plate of Maggi noodle I have had has been different. When I lived in my childhood home, it was freedom. Having a moment to myself away from studies or family time, it meant solitude. After having studied all night, tip toeing to the kitchen to cook Maggi, pouring a glass of juice and sitting on the rooftop of my house was my way of faux adulting.

That same plate of Maggi during late nights of group projects or after a night of drinking hit different. It was the comfort I wanted to feel, my home away from home.

When at my flat where I lived by myself, during low times, it was the food of desperation, something I took to soothe myself, to just remind myself a bad phase has its own flour based, noodle shaped lining.

During outings with a friend, the unfinished food on our plates is indicator of our collective poor judgement because we both consistently overestimated our appetites which combined is that of one person actually.

At my grandparents' house, food was greed. I wanted to lap up everything I could, even from my cousin's plate. It was novelty, a difference from my usual diet at my own house. During birthday parties, after the mandatory 🎵 Happy Birthday to youuuu 🎶, we had a plate full consisting precisely of a piece of cake, some noodles, 1 singular piece of kulcha accompanied by chole, and 1 Gulab jamun/Rasgulla (preference of the birthday kid's mother). It was excitement, celebration and risky food eating all in one a 9" space.

It is a solid return on investment when at a buffet with friends. It starts with an 'Oooo we are gonna get value for our money' to 'Maybe we didn't need main course after the flurry of starters we hogged down.

Food is real adulting when I fill my house with smoke while trying to cook biryani because I forgot to switch off the gas. It is growing up as I start with a terrible scrambled eggs that I am forced to cook during lockdown to graduate to some decent pasta and rice bowls.

It has been the pause in that same adulthood, a moment of respite to re-create childhood by stockpiling the cabinets with chips, chocolates and ice-creams (okay the last one goes in the freezer I am aware).

It is bonding with colleagues during bouts of shared misery over a project or customer- a cup full of tea (or a beer, ideally), frustration and jokes.

Food is hope, excitement and anxiety all in one during a first date- a measure of compatibility. It's a question- Can I share 20,000 more meals with this person?

Food is love, care and all the unspoken affection and feelings between my mom and me. It is sorry, it is thank-you and it is 'I notice who you are and what you like, I see you'. It is concern when I get a plate of cut-up fruit without having to ask. It is 'I miss you' when I am away from home and put her on the phone to give me company.

Food is survival, a need and a privilege when I see the world at large. It is gratitude.

When I see people having set up roadside camps, offering free food and cold beverages in scorching heat, it is empathy. It is a need to serve, a desire to give without anything in return.

It is sustenance, craving, medicine and identity.

Perhaps next time you eat, ask - what is it to me?