Ladoos
by Bhavya
My mother's hands turned and turned around the clock, creating the most delicious Indian treat I had ever seen. Ladoos. The soft smell of melting sugar would envelop the house, the boondi crackling as amma dipped each batch in and out of the oil. The raisins and almonds rattled amongst the sides of the steel mixing bowl as the dry fruit mixture was poured in, accompanied by Amma’s jingling bangles as she mixed the ingredients together— a wonderful harmony conducted by her each festival season. Each sound unsheathed a ravishing picture— I would soon be in my own little kitchen wearing a saree and bangles, crafting every single sweet as little kids and guests flooded the house for the festival season. But for now, I would spend the nights thinking of the delicacy and observing my mother mount each piece onto decorated platters. As she added a dash of saffron and a tablespoon of her love onto the sweets, she recited all the duties I had to do:
Count the lamps. Two at the front door, two in the back, and four at the mandir.
Clean up your bedroom. Fold your clothes properly this time.
Rearrange the living room for our guests. Be quiet while you do it. Your father doesn’t like noise.
Take out your langavonis and jewelry. Make sure to help your sister.
She’d given me a whole checklist, simply menial daily tasks for her. No one could relax as festival season approached. But how could seven-year-old me complete all of them? Ignoring my impending duties, I hopped onto the countertop, my anklets ringing as I propped myself up. I wanted to watch my mom even closer. Amma made the best ladoos. One day, mine would be too— just like hers.
Round and round. Do it with me.
Clasping my two hands together, I molded the sweet together, staring intently at how one could craft such gems. I could hold one in each hand, one for me and one for my sister. I can hold two more after we eat, one for my mom and one for my dad. I will hold more for my friends to eat, one for Cameron, one for Mr. D, and one for the bus driver. I could give one to everyone!
Gently. Not like that, didn’t I say!
Her voice snapped me out of my fantasies. Oh no, I shouldn’t mess this up. I must have been rolling them too fast, my desires destroying the sweets I was trying to make. I needed to be better.
Slowly, Bhavya.
Fear crept through my skin as my mother spoke sternly. I started over, watching how my mom rolled the sweets easily, a skill acquired from being bound to the house after marriage. As she rounded the mixture into each ladoo, I quickly fell behind, having barely filled the first row of sweets on my platter. I couldn’t be like her. I didn’t have the nerve to tell her to slow down, subordination and silence having been familiar friends. I had to push through. My ladoo needed to be good—for Amma. I kept rolling my ladoo, having molded it until my hands ached and sweat dripped down my forehead. But before I could place my creation on the platter, a force hit me, knocking down the sweet I had crafted with my tiny, delicate hands.
How will you survive if you can’t do this? You think someone will marry you?
Scolding me in unintelligible terms, I watched as she tried to salvage the ruined piece. It was for you, amma. Words flowed through my tears as I became overwhelmed by my insecurities. Bowing my head down in shame and defeat, I dropped off the counter and ran to my room. Amma was mad at me. It was all my fault. How could I not make the ladoos perfectly? This was the only thing she had asked of me, and I couldn’t even do one simple task. Sitting on my bed, I decided to erase my fears through the fantasies of reading. As her disappointment echoed throughout the apartment, my eyes became entranced in the glory of fairies. Although they were tiny mystical creatures, they lived freely among humans. Each one had wings to fly and the power of magic to emphasize their individuality. I wanted to be a fairy. No, I wanted to be my mom. Yet, I could never be her.
Bhavya! Instead of sitting uselessly, why don’t you do the laundry?
I have to do everything here. No one can do anything right. I
’m a slave for all of you right? Useless people.
Had I known those were her cries for help, a shout to escape the realities of what motherhood had done to her, I would not have hidden in my room each festival season, exacerbating the pressure she had placed upon herself. Had I known this was how she voiced her concerns, a representation of what she thought would make me the perfect woman, I would not have spent years antagonizing her.
The ladoos she had crafted represented what life had done to her, molding her into one round confinement. Although she tried to rebuild herself time and time again, the ingredients needed to be moist to stick in their new mold. Had she shown herself crumbled, I would not have ignored her words. I would not have ignored the burdens of motherhood, her labor of love—a duty implemented by society. She had understood the recipe for a happy life as having to care with love always. Supposedly, she had never felt burdened by having two daughters. However, every act didn’t feel like a simple act of unconditional love. They disguised her anger and her inability to discover her identity beyond the confines of motherhood. Every chore she had expected me to follow was a representation of how she was taught to live to be happy. Yet, I could never be happy like that knowing I would have to sacrifice constantly, never being able to fulfill my dreams and wishes. I don’t want to be her anymore— a shell of an individual smothered by society’s expectations left and right.
People will love you if you do as they say.
Listen to your father and don’t anger him.
Everything will be peaceful if you listen and do.
All she had wanted was a peaceful family filled with love and care. Peace was maintained as long as the dad worked to feed the family while the mother and daughters tended to the home. Her mother maintained a house like that. Why could she not do that? By the ripe age of 12, she woke up early to cook for the men in her house, sacrificing her focus on education. By the ripe age of 16, she realized she would always be the last priority when her brothers were allowed to fulfill their college years while she was sentenced to home after her daily lectures. By the ripe age of 22, she realized she spent years in school in vain, dropping all her hard work for a random man who escaped with her to the land of freedom. America.
But what is freedom if one can’t speak in their own house? What is freedom when a ten-year-old is forced to give up her days of mingling with her friends and dolls and instead must learn to take care of herself and a random man in the future without parental support? What is freedom when a ten-year-old is degraded for desiring to wear cute gowns like her neighbors?
I hated amma for that. How could she easily deprive me of my childhood, pressuring me to sacrifice my well-being above all others?
How could I ever eat her ladoos again, knowing she rejected my misshapen ladoo olive branch, knowing that she rejected me?
How could she place her internal pressure on me, hurting me through her words disguised as love and care? I hated amma for all of that.
For the next decade, I spent each festival season confining myself to my bedroom. Becoming numb to each arrow that struck my heart, I watched as Amma wasted her voice on my lack of will to help. I rarely spoke to her, avoiding any chance of another long scolding. I struggled to realize her pain and perspective, blinded by my hatred for being deprived of what every kid deserved. I refused to ever eat ladoos, protesting her animosity.
Yet, when I entered my house for winter break after the first semester of college, a sweet and sticky scent filled my nose stopping me at the door. I was whisked back to days spent with my mom during festival season baking Indian sweets all day. A million thoughts ran through my head—where was this familiar smell coming from?
Your mom prepared the mixture before going to sleep. I told her to not waste her time and labor knowing you won’t eat the sweets. You never did since you were a child. And worse of all, now you would only like the stupid mac n’ cheese they serve in those dining halls of yours. Still she did not listen and was up till midnight frying the boondi and preparing the ladoo mixture. I had to yell at her to sleep, or she would not move from the stove.
My father’s words echoed through my head as my eyes fell onto the pot of sweet mixture and a decorated platter on the kitchen island—a beautiful mess. Amma had prepared ladoos again knowing how much I detested that delicacy. Why would she do that? She had to wake up again at 4 am for her puja and to prepare the tiffin boxes. Why would she sacrifice her sleep? Ladoos take four to five hours to craft. How could she be so careless of her health for me?
Strangely, my hands itched to mold the dough ladoos like I did long ago and my mouth watered at the thought of its taste. I dared to secretly slip one into my mouth, letting the soft sweetness melt on my tongue. Climbing the stairs to surprise her with my arrival, I thought of the labor she had put in for me throughout the years. To cook was to care, my mother’s expression of love. She had grown to confuse anger with love, so when words became too much, she poured her feelings onto the kitchen stove—each dish was a recipe of her feelings.
Ladoos didn’t simply represent her scoldings and anger for my “incompetence.” They represented our misunderstandings, between mother and daughter. Each raisin embedded in the ladoo represented our fights and our inability to express ourselves—traits acquired from our mothers. Yet, the tablespoon of love and joyous moments spent at the kitchen counter crafting the sweets represented what brought us together. Neither of us learned how to use words accordingly, choosing to rely on material items to showcase our emotions. Even if we spent days without uttering a word, the tiffin box, the ladoo, and the finished laundry attested to our relationship, and what we truly meant to say to each other. They voiced what amma never had the ability to say over the years in her own house.
Amma wasn’t trying to mold me to serve a random man and kids. Amma wanted to use what she learned to help me learn to make something for myself. She wanted me to learn what it means to be an individual. Round and round, she molded me just like she rolled each ladoo.
Amma was the one who replaced the toys in my hands with rolling pins and cooking utensils and TV time with household chores.
When you live alone, I won’t cook for you, right? Learn how to use the instant pot in college. You will never forget homemade food.
Never forget to clean the vacuum. If your hair is caught at the bottom, the vacuum is as good as done. Make sure to buy dusters and laundry there, too.
Osey, how can you not work a washing machine? Didn’t you make a big deal of knowing how to live alone? Always remember to put these settings and press start.
Amma was the one who convinced my dad to let me go to prom. Amma was the one who spent endless nights convincing my dad to let me pursue higher education, fighting my dad to let me pave my own way. Amma did all of this at night, hidden from the eyes who spent so long despising her.
Even though it was difficult, Amma poured her time into us. In the morning, she made ladoos and at night, she read parenting books. She tried to understand our “American” habits such as eating mac n’ cheese for breakfast instead of fresh idlis. Amma took her time, but she was always trying to learn how to mend our relationship. She broke through the barriers alone, never revealing the trials and tribulations she had gone through.
It took me till 18, long after my mouth had forgotten the sweet taste of laddoos. It took me till 18, after I had wholly distanced myself from my family and culture. It took me till 18 to learn her story.
I spent so long escaping those who loved me, but is it too late for me to go back Amma? Is it too late for me to help around and decorate the house for the next festival season? Is it too late for me to sit on the countertop and make ladoos with you again Amma?
I am sorry, Amma, for having spent so long ignoring your reality. I will always cherish your ladoos, those trinkets of love and joy, those trinkets of anger and misunderstanding, those trinkets of a beautiful story.
Bhavyasri Suggula is a first year at UVA hoping to major in Global Studies/Foreign Affairs and minor in Public Policy on the pre-law track. Her hobbies include reading, taking hot girl walks, going out on boba dates, and entertaining her obsession with sudoku and word puzzles.
