By: Rusham Verma, SFU Student
It’s summer vacation. I’m only 12 years old and my maternal grandmother’s house is infused with the nostalgic smell of halwa made with atta — halwa is a smooth and velvety dessert, similar in consistency to a pudding, made by roasting atta (wheat flour), ghee, and sugar. I’m playing outside in the garden, surrounded by the beautiful flowers my grandmother has grown, taking in their fragrance with a hint of roasted flour from the kitchen. “Laddo, come here! It’s ready!” says my mom from the inside, and just as I open the door, the strong scent of roasted ghee and sugar hits me. I run towards the kitchen and see my grandma spreading the halwa evenly in a big box.
“Yay! Thank you so much!” I say, hugging my grandma tightly. She kisses my forehead and pats my head. I take a bowl and transfer some of the halwa to it. My mom’s side of the family, being from the Sikh culture, has always had a rich cultural heritage. In our culture, we always go to a gurudwara to pray to god and as kada prasad (or “blessed food”), we get atte ka halwa — just like the one my grandmother makes. Kada prasad represents the “blessings of God.” Preparing and sharing it, like it’s done in a gurudwara, is meant to foster “unity, equality, and selfless service.” Selfless service: a principle of Sikhism known as “seva,” which my grandmother exemplifies so well. This halwa is a significant part of my life and culture, and gives me one more reason to cherish it when my grandmother makes it. I eat it hot, and it melts as soon as it touches my tongue, filling my mouth with so much sweetness.
Never in my whole life has there been a time when I went to my grandmother’s house and did not eat atte ka halwa. It has become a comforting tradition that is not just upheld by me, but all my cousins. Every time any of us visits grandma, we do so knowing that the halwa will be ready upon our arrival; once, the day before a family event, my grandmother made halwa for all the cousins despite the amount of work needed. No matter, halwa is a way our grandmother shows love, so she even insists on making it all herself, no help allowed. So, every time, we just patiently watch her mix flour, ghee, and sugar while the mixture roasts and releases that distinctive sweet smell that brings me back to my childhood summers.
“This love gets passed on to the next generation as well. This recipe was taught to my grandmother by her mother, and then it was taught to my mother.”
Whenever I ask her to make the halwa, I always notice the crow’s feet beside her eyes and the twinkle in them, her lips turning into a big smile, and her feet moving on their own accord to the kitchen as if it’s second nature to her. Even though her recipe is similar to many, her love for us seeps through, making her halwa taste like none other. This is the love of my grandmother. This is just one of the ways she expresses her love for her grandchildren, and it’s perhaps the most treasured by us.
This love gets passed on to the next generation as well. This recipe was taught to my grandmother by her mother, and then it was taught to my mother as well. So, this love is not just for the summer but for the whole year. My mom makes it with the same love that my grandmother does, and it tastes like it when eating. One random Saturday, I’ll ask my mom to teach me how to make it, just as she did with her mother. I already know the recipe, but learning it from my mom will give the experience a different meaning — it’s a tradition, a core memory that will last us forever. I feel extremely lucky to be a part of something so special.
This generational love is what makes family worth cherishing. Getting halwa here in Canada, 11,500 km away from my grandmother, is not hard, I can always visit the nearest gurudwara and get some. However, it will never have the love she puts into making it. Halwa is not only a sweet treat, but a reminder of my grandmother’s love.
