The bowl of aam kasundi murgi sat alone at the center of the dining table, steam rising from it, filling the room with the sweet, tangy, and meaty smell of chicken mixed with mustard and mangoes. I had never come across such an aroma—none of my family had—before today.

As usual, my mama started serving food on my sister’s plate and then mine: the rice to the left, paneer tikka and gobi ki sabji to the right, and a small bowl half filled with dal next to the plate. Papa mirrored Mama’s actions, serving food on his and Mama’s plates in much larger portions. The bowl of aam kasundi murgi, however, remained untouched by both of them.

It had become a silent tradition in our family to eat rice and sabjis, trying to ignore the bowl of meat or seafood adorning the center of the table, but inevitably having our eyes fall upon it while passing the salt, taking a second serving, or looking across the table. The dish remained there in the middle, unwanted but ever-present, until dinner was over and the table was cleared of all plates, bowls, and cutlery.

After dinner, Mama, with practiced ease, would pack the leftovers into small Tupperware containers and stack them in our overstuffed refrigerator to be microwaved for tomorrow’s breakfast. She would then pour the dish at the center of the dining table into a disposable plastic container and hand it to Papa, who, during his evening walk, would later pour its contents into the trough for the stray dogs and cats four blocks away.

Initially, Mama feared that Ghosh Auntie would discover that we were disposing of her dishes in this manner. But when a week passed without any comments from her, Mama felt reassured, confident that we could continue the charade of neighborly food exchange.

The exchange began innocently enough on a fine Monday evening when Mama sent a plate of chole bhature next door to Ghosh Auntie’s house, and, in return, Ghosh Auntie sent back the plate filled with egg biryani and another bowl filled with machher jhol. The next day, Mama returned Ghosh Auntie’s bowl filled with malai kofta, and the cycle continued.

My mama, ever polite, never revealed that we were vegetarians. She had assumed the exchange was a phase that would pass, but by the time it became a routine that would continue, it felt too late to bring up the truth. So, she kept up the pretense, always thanking Ghosh Auntie and assuring her that the dishes were a much-loved addition to our dinner table.

But this charade had gone on for too long. Just as Mama had run out of compliments for the dishes she had never tasted, I had run out of the willpower to resist the tantalizing aromas that had filled our dining room of late. That evening, when Mama was busy serving food on my plate, I couldn’t help but pick up a ladle, dip it into the bowl of aam kasundi murgi, scoop out a chicken piece with some curry, and pour it into my bowl, where the dal usually went.

The room suddenly went silent—no clicking of cutlery, no laughter, no conversation, nothing. With all eyes in the room on me, I lifted my spoon, scooped some chicken curry, and brought it to my mouth. I savored the rich flavors of mustard, tomatoes, chilies, and chicken. The aam kasundi murgi also tasted of something more than just food—it tasted of Bengal, of love, of family.

When I dipped my spoon into the curry for a second time, I saw from the corner of my eye my Mama silently picking up the ladle still in the bowl of aam kasundi murgi, scooping a generous portion for herself. Then, my Papa took the ladle, followed by my sister.

That night, the only sounds at the dinner table were the scraping of spoons on plates and bowls and the chewing and gulping of food. The dish at the center of the dining table was, for the first time, not isolated. It had been seen, touched, and eaten from until it was completely clean. That night, Papa didn’t go for his evening walk. Mama packed the leftovers into small Tupperware containers but didn’t reach for the disposable plastic containers.