Tastes That Travel With Us

By Nabam Rimi

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Waking up earlier than usual. before the sun rises properly. Half of the house is still asleep. Sitting on the edge of your bed, you gaze around. The window. The curtain that doesn't shut completely. The wall's tiny stain, which has always been there. All of a sudden, everything seems important.

As you enter the kitchen, you observe your mother in the kitchen. You don't offer help the way you normally do. All you do is stand there. Observing. The way she washes the vegetables. Her method of chopping veggies without taking any measurements. The rhythm of the chopping sound. Even if you eat in silence, you take note of everything, including the rice's texture, the salt's perfect amount, and the subtle bitterness of a green vegetable you used to complain about. Even everyday food feels profoundly meaningful that morning.

When we leave Arunachal Pradesh for a city like Bangalore, we are not just changing location. We are stepping into a version of ourselves that we haven’t met yet. In Bangalore, everything is available, for example, supermarkets, online delivery apps, restaurants open till midnight. But somehow, something is always slightly off.

The vegetables have a glossy appearance. Too tidy. Too uniform. The taste is close, but not exact. And it's odd that even when the mind tries to adapt, the body can still detect the difference.

So before leaving, we pack. Not because other states don't have variety. Not because the city has absolutely different things. But because the taste of home carries something else inside it. It carries a routine. It carries language. It carries the comfort of eating without thinking. An empty chewing-gum bottle, filled with chicken pickle. Some green and fresh herbs. A packet of something your family insists you take even if you say, “It’s okay, I’ll manage.” The suitcase becomes heavier, but it still feels less.

In Bangalore, away from my hometown, the first few nights are always the hardest. The room feels unfamiliar. The silence and noise is different from home. You are reminded that you are no longer in your hometown by the sounds of the outside world, including traffic, distant horns, and people speaking a language that you have no clue about.

In the evening, when the homesickness becomes too loud, you open that bottle. The smell escapes the tightly-closed jar instantly. And suddenly the distance between Itanagar and Bangalore feels thinner. You take a small bite of that chicken pickle with rice. And for a second, you are not in a rented room. You are at your dining area back home. Someone is asking if you want more. Someone is complaining about their seniors. Someone is laughing. Food becomes a bridge that connects you to your home.

It is not about what exactly is inside the bottle. It is about who packed it. Who stood in the kitchen that morning, pretending not to be emotional. Who said, “Call me when you reach.” Who slipped extra chicken into the jar because they know that’s how you like it.

Living away from home teaches you independence. You learn new tastes. You learn to cook for yourself. You learn to survive in a city that does not automatically understand you. But you also realise that carrying food from home is not childish. It is not dramatic. It is a subtle way of saying, “I come from somewhere.”

Over time, the bottle becomes lighter. The pickle reduces. You start adding other items to your plate. Without even realising it, you begin to mix worlds on your plate. And perhaps that is what it means to grow up; to be able to eat various meals, without having to choose between the city and home.

Still, every time you return to Bangalore after holidays, your bag is heavy again. Because no matter how far you go, you always leave with a little extra rice in your stomach, a last long look at your loved ones, and a trolley  filled with the taste of who you are.