My Nani was Made of Coriander by Terveen Gill

My nani always smelled of coriander.

The smell was in her hair, her cheeks, the cream cotton kurta that she always paired with a black salwar. I thought she had only one outfit but later discovered that all her clothes were the same color.

At the time, my young mind had thought that it was a uniform like the one I wore to school. But my grandfather told me that my grandmother was a simple woman. Her family were all the colors she needed.

I understand this now, but back then that reasoning was too heavy for an immature mind.

I’d come home from school and find nani in the kitchen. She’d be wearing her thick glasses and leaning over some pot or pan, stirring, kneading, or crushing fresh spices in a heavy, stone mortar.

The coriander seeds were her favorite. She said the smallest pinch of coriander powder could fix the most tasteless of foods.

And she was right. I loved the dals and fried vegetables that she made. The coriander was never too much but always stood out. It made me lick my bowl and plate clean after every meal.

At night when nani sat at my bedside and stroked my hair, the smell of coriander was always with her. It comforted me like a teddy bear, and I would take deep breaths hoping to fill myself with that reassuring smell.

Nani spoke very little, but her love spilled from the food that she cooked for us. We were a family of three. My mother, nani’s daughter, had died when I was only two. And my father had remarried.

His new wife didn’t want me. I’m grateful for that.

Twenty-five years were too less to love nani. Old age took her from me.

She was cremated. I buried her ashes in a sunny corner of my backyard.

This morning, I found tiny coriander plants pushing through the ground there.

I always knew my nani was made of coriander.