Ma’s hands knew the salt. Mine guess.
I stand at the stove with the same pot, the same oil, the same dal soaking since morning the way she taught me. But something is always slightly off — too thin, or not thin enough, or the tempering doesn’t smell right.
She says it’s the water. Different city, different mineral content. She says this kindly, the way she says most things — as if the problem is solvable, as if it is no one’s fault.
I know it’s the hands. Mine are younger. They haven’t learned the patience yet — the patience of knowing when to stop adjusting and let the thing be what it is.
The dal still tastes like home. Just a home that’s slightly out of reach — the one you remember rather than the one you can return to.
I eat it anyway. I always do.