What the Wind Whispers

Aahat si koi aae to lagta hai ki tum ho
saya koi lahrae to lagta hai ki tum ho
— Jan Nisar Akhtar

Sometimes it starts with the wind. A hush. A swish. A subtle change in the air, so light you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention. But I’ve learned to listen.

Because sometimes the wind carries two names: Deepa and Deepak.

Sister and brother. Older and younger. He was named after her and between them, they lit up every room, every table, every shared plate of food, every family story. They lived the way all of us wish we could—with laughter in their mouths, with love in their hands, with andaaz in their eating and unfiltered affection in their hearts. And both left us too soon. Gone in June. A month that should have brought mangoes and monsoon, instead it brings back memory.

And memory, as Jan Nisar Akhtar reminds us, has its own strange, sudden ways of returning.

Aahat si koi aae to lagta hai ki tum ho.
A soft footfall. And it feels like you.

It’s never a thunderclap. Always a rustle. The faintest sound—a spoon against steel, the sizzle of tempering spices—and they return. Not in shadow, not in some mystical haze, but fully. At the dining table. On the verandah. Around the radio. Inside the scent of food rising from a kitchen that’s seen generations of love and loss.

And Tahiri. That dish that defies simple labels. Not biryani. Not pulao. Not khichdi. Tahiri is its own thing—golden rice speckled with carrots, peas, potatoes, cooked with mustard seeds and cumin, and in our house, always, a whisper of hing— that sharp, ancient scent of asafoetida that hits your nose like memory itself. Deepa and Deepak loved it. They ate it like it was joy itself—with seconds and thirds, with that familiar groan of happiness after too much. And somehow, even now, if a neighbour makes Tahiri and its scent wafts in, they are both instantly there.

Jab shakh koi hath lagate hi chaman mein sharmae lachak jae to lagta hai ki tum ho.
When a hand brushes a branch and it bends shyly, it feels like you.

A tree doesn’t mourn the way we do. It remembers with its movement. I’ve seen the bougainvillea sway in our backyard and thought of Bua’s laugh, how it came without warning and stayed in the air. I’ve watched the neem tree flutter and thought of Papa, barefoot, walking across the courtyard, calling me to listen to a poem on the radio.

Sandal se mahakti hui pur-kaif hava ka
jhonka koi takrae to lagta hai ki tum ho.
When a breeze fragrant with sandalwood brushes past, it feels like you.

Sometimes it’s the air itself that carries them. Papa’s sandal soap. Bua’s mogra-scented gajra. The masalas kept in grandmother’s kitchen. That breeze comes, hits your neck, and you turn knowing no one will be there. And yet, they are.

Odhe hue taroa ki chamakti hui chadar
naddi koi bal khae to lagta hai ki tum ho.
When a river turns beneath a starry blanket, it feels like you.

At night, when everyone else is asleep, I find myself humming the songs Papa loved. The stars are up. The world is quiet. And grief sits quietly beside me—not heavy, not sharp, just… present.

Jab raat gae koi kiran mere barabar chup-chap si so jae to lagta hai ki tum ho.
When the last ray of night sleeps quietly beside me, it feels like you.

Because loss doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it breathes. It takes the form of light on the kitchen wall, of two spoons left out, of one last spoonful of Tahiri waiting to be eaten.

And when I smell Tahiri with a touch of hing/
When a shadow flickers across the verandah/ when a song plays from another room—I turn /
And I smile / Because I know/ It feels like you.

cuisinesdelicacyfoodkitchenTahiri