Writing his obituary reminded me of what a wholesome life he’d had. It also reminded me of the smaller, every day moments that make up life, the moments that define human relationships and provide a window into one’s personality. Moments that generally don’t get written about. Moments like our trips to Dhaka Club to pick out a video of my choice – a regular little indulgence that would often be prefaced by lunch or dinner at the club restaurant, where he’d always introduce me as his youngest daughter. Or the times when I’d barge into the air-conditioned confines of his office and unbeknownst to my khala, we’d indulge in a cheeky shingara, food that was generally forbidden given his cholesterol friendly diet.
I pen this while seated under the shadow of a deserted lighthouse in a quaint Uruguayan coastal town, a meaty chivito clutched in one hand, its juices dripping down my arm. You would’ve approved. As I ruminate on your teachings I promise myself, and you this: I will continue to savour my meals, in whatever circumstances and locations they may be in, and write about them, with no reservations.