In The Fourth Trimester, we ask parents: What meal nourished you after welcoming your baby? This month, it’s snackable til ladoo from writer and editor Pooja Makhijani. Trigger warning: This post contains graphic language about childbirth and postpartum depression; please take care.
In the weeks that followed the final, shuddery contraction that expelled my daughter’s body from mine, I stared out the window for long stretches of time. I threw things and screamed. I flailed. I gasped for air. Visions of bodies, hers and mine—bloody, splayed, impaled, swollen—flashed before me. I imagined running away. I made plans. I drew maps. I traced bus routes. I was haunted by visions: Waves pressed, yanked, suffocated. Menacing belts of seawater entangled my ankles—dragged me into the deep, onto the seafloor.
Somehow food served as a beacon of light. For breakfast, I savored my mother’s milky oats, swirled with honey and sprinkled with almonds, or my mother-in-law’s pudding-like ragi porridge. I ate stacks of ghee-drenched methi paratha and herby lauki soup for lunch. At dinner, I relished sai bhaji, haldi doodh, or moringa sambar.
In the silences after nursing, after laying my daughter down to nap, after falling onto the floor in a heap, I nibbled on til ladoo—a moreish treat. They came boxed by the dozen and someone—my mother? My mother-in-law?—piled them on a plate, pyramid-like, in the nursery. Soft and chewy. Nutty and caramelly. Their taste overwhelmed me, pleased me, grounded me at a time when everything else was darkness.
Traditional postpartum ingredients that have nourished South Asian families for generations—like the sesame seeds, jaggery, and ghee in those ladoo—are believed to heal the birthing parent. To boost milk production, reduce inflammation, aid digestion, and replenish micronutrients. I don’t know whether those ladoo had any such measurable effects on my body. What I do know is that they symbolized hope and care, at a time I was convinced that I deserved neither.
Depression is a weird thing. “A thief,” as the cliche goes. Nearly 13 years later, I can easily recall negative memories: the fatigue, the hopelessness, the terror. But I don’t remember many of the happy ones: my daughter’s first smile, first word, first step, first dip in the sea. Even photographs don’t spark recollection. What sort of mother forgets everything but what she ate?
But I’ve also come to believe that the universe works in inexplicable ways. There is no rational explanation for why the demons who ransacked my brain left behind those tasty reminisces. But I’m thankful that they gave me something sweet.
Today, til ladoo are precious, cherished. I make batches on birthdays, holidays, school days, rainy days. They are reminders of community and strength, little orbs of brightness. When I feel out of sorts, I snack on them—hear their sesame-seeded crunch, savor their jaggery-spiked earthiness, ponder their buttery mouthfeel long after I’ve swallowed.
Just like they did in my first months of motherhood, these bites ground me. And they serve as a reminder to make new memories. There are many more parenting firsts to come.
