It feels strange to even write this in the past tense.
I am a below-average cook. I say that without hesitation. The curries I make taste good not because of my skill, but because of a secret ingredient — a special chilli powder.
But this wasn’t just any chilli powder.
It was formulated by my father-in-law. Ground in his own mill. Packed in his own shop. Made with precision, patience, and pride.
Traditional South Indian Kulambu milagai podi, but to me, it was simply mama’s masala.
After I got married, I never worried about buying chilli powder from outside. All I had to do was make one phone call.
“Mama, milagai podi venum…”
And he would prepare it fresh for me.
My brother-in-law Suresh would carefully pack and courier it. If someone travelled from Cuddalore to Mangalore or Chennai, I would request them to bring a packet. It travelled across cities with me like a silent family member.
I must thank my father-in-law for this — whether I learned cooking or not, his masala never let me down. Whether I cooked just for the two of us or for a full house of guests, it never failed me.
It was my confidence in powdered form.
When we were in Mangalore, especially during the rainy season, I would inform Mama in advance. He would double-dry the chilli powder so it stayed fresh despite the humidity. That was his nature, thoughtful even in the smallest details.
When we moved to Gujarat, the very first thing I packed was one full kilo of chilli powder.
Mama told me, “Why so much? Take only half. I’ll send more. It should always be fresh.”
That was him — practical, caring, and particular.
In May 2025, we reached Vadodara. After arranging the house and surviving on Gujarati and restaurant food for three days, I finally opened that packet and made kara kulambu.
The moment we tasted it, our tongues felt alive again.
Home had arrived.
In August 2025, we travelled to Tirunelveli for our family deity. Mama sent a few more packets of chilli powder then.
By the end of that same month, we received the news that shattered us.
Mama passed away.
This masala sitting in my kitchen now is the last one made by his hands.
The final batch was prepared with his love, his passion, his perfection.
After my mother-in-law’s demise, he had bought his own land and set up a rice mill there. It had been their shared dream to own a mill instead of operating from a rented place. He worked tirelessly to make that dream real.
Even a few days before he passed away, he had installed new machines. He carefully taught the recipe to my co-sister. He even made her record videos of how to fix the machinery just in case.
That was how committed he was.
The day he left us, he had spent ample time at the mill doing his routine work. He came home, spoke to me over the phone, spent time with his family, went to sleep…
And never woke up.
Now, when I open that container of chilli powder, it is not just an ingredient.
It is memory.
It is love.
It is encouragement.
Without it, my curries would have never been this tasty. Without him, my early cooking disasters would have probably remained disasters.
Yes, I will continue to receive masala from Cuddalore. The mill is still there. Mama shared his secret ingredients. My brother-in-law and co-sister will send it to me.
The taste may remain.
But I will still miss the man behind it.
Because he was not just the maker of my masala.
He was my go-to person for anything and everything.
Mama,
I love you.
And I miss you more than words can hold.
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