Cakes and Caskets

It was my grandfather who taught me how to bake. He was quite a methodical man, giving precise instructions and emphasizing on the importance of exact measurements in producing the best cakes. To him, the art of baking was in its mathematics and chemistry, even the technique used to mix and fold the ingredients onto themselves had to be a certain way.

My love for baking developed as I watched my grandfather take seemingly random food components and turn them into the most delectable delicacy. The wondrous transformation left me awestruck, and I reveled at the wizardry behind the methods. When I first started baking, it was a disaster. My cake did not rise, and it was soggy and inedible. I have to say that I am a living testament of ‘practice makes perfect’. I learnt and grew from my mistakes – liquid butter will make the batter too runny, so it is better to use softened butter, the importance of pre-heating the oven and maintaining the perfect temperature (finding the ideal temperature is an ordeal in itself), the proper way to grease the pans, and more. I have ventured into making various types of baked goods, allowing my inventive nature to play. Baking creates a space of solace for me, where I can escape to when stress builds up around me. Standing in the kitchen, my clothes dusted with flour, broken egg shells on the counter-top, the rich smell of my creations overpowering my senses, my creativity soaring, I am at home.  

  

My grandfather passed away this year, on the 26^th of March, which is also the Independence Day of Bangladesh. Although his death did not come as a shock since he had been suffering for quite some time now, I remember feeling incredibly numb when I first saw his lifeless body. Everything around me had disappeared and I was standing still in the middle of the roof top where my cousins and I used to spend our afternoons when we were younger, running around and telling our grandfather to catch us. I was standing against the railing, counting the number of bats flying across the sky in the evenings and pointing out enthusiastically any unusually large ones to my grandfather. I was on the kitchen counter top, flour on my hands and face, watching earnestly how he mixed the sugar, butter, flour and eggs to make the perfect cake. All my memories with my grandfather started spinning before my eyes, and then there was nothing. He was gone.

It did really feel like he was just sleeping, lying extremely still, and that he would open his eyes at any moment and everything would go back to normal. But as much as I wanted that to happen, it did not. His absence was looming over our heads as we came back to our homes after the funeral, dominating our thoughts and conversations. Nobody deals with the death of a loved one the same way. Some find it comforting to let out all their emotions by crying and mourning, while others bury the pain until it reaches through the cracks and breaks down the fragile front. My heart still feels heavy when I remember him, and I wish I had a little bit more time with him, but the human heart is like that – always wanting a little bit more. Wherever he is now, I hope he is at peace.