The Soup Lady

She is the woman I want to be.

She loved people, all kinds of people -Family and friends, friends of family and even complete strangers. She did not love them for what they did, their accomplishments or for their exuberant personalities. It was a love at the most primal level, a love because they were human. And her manifestation of love was food. 

Every evening, before dinner she would dish up a delicious chicken broth with those less fascinating pieces of the bird – the neck, the wings, the gizzard etc. It was delicious. This was served with chewy salty chicken bits to munch on. Each mealtime was an occasion in itself with different dishes being prepared for different people. Prawns and dal for one, curry and fish for another, two types of rice and a vegetable. 

Her feet shuffled between the kitchen and the dining room throughout the day. Breakfast flowed seamlessly into lunch, followed by evening tea, a pre-dinner snack over drinks and dinner. I took it all for granted, lapped it up – both the food as well as the coaxing to go for a second and third helping. She looked on indulgently and said ‘When I see you eating, my stomach feels full’. All the while, she was a silent spectator, never thinking of herself but giving of herself completely.

She died just as quietly as she had lived her entire life. There was no fan fare and no overbearing sympathies. Just a love that could never be expressed in words. As I hold a bowl of soup within my hands, it evokes memories of the most beautiful woman in the world. And that all familiar love brews within my heart again.