I never really knew this house.
I have seen it only once, from the outside. And yet, through my husband Nishal and Mai’s stories and a collection of old photographs, I feel like I am slowly getting to know the life that once filled it.
This was Nishal’s grandparents’ home in Kushekar, Valencia. From everything I have heard, it was a beautiful, almost palatial family home. And like so many old Mangalorean homes, some of its best stories seem to have happened around food.
One of my favourite photographs is of Nishal’s grandfather sitting on the floor, scraping coconut, with my brother-in-law standing behind him. It is such an ordinary moment, and perhaps that is why I love it so much.
From the stories I hear, the men in this family were always involved in the kitchen. Scraping coconuts, cleaning fish, doing the market rounds, cooking. They did it all. It is something I still see in the family today.
Another thing that fascinates me is the food itself. This is a Mangalorean Catholic household, but among the family recipes are dishes I recognise from Mangalorean Hindu kitchens too. It is a lovely reminder of how food in Mangalore has always travelled between homes and communities, becoming part of a family’s story along the way.
And then there is this photograph.
Everyone gathered around a meal, and right at the heart of it, a glorious pile of sannas. Mai thinks this may have been a Sunday lunch photo. She doesn’t remember what was being discussed around that table, or who went back for one more sanna, but we love looking at it. Because I think old photographs preserve things that recipes alone cannot.
Who did the cooking. Who sat where. Who scraped the coconut. What appeared on the table for special occasions. The tiny, everyday details that nobody thought would one day become family history.
These aren’t my memories. They belong to Nishal, to Mai, and to the generations before them.I am simply lucky enough to hear them now.
And I hope, little by little, to write some of them down here before they disappear.